


echoes

by The Master of the Deck (officiumdefunctorum)



Series: Dagger 'verse [2]
Category: Wheel of Time - Robert Jordan
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesia, Book 03: The Dragon Reborn, Casual Sex, Flirting, Gentling, I WILL NOT APOLOGIZE, Introspection, LawfulChaos, M/M, Mat Cauthon Is Bad At Feelings, Mat's Dagger Problems, Meta Commentary on White Tower Politics, Mild Angst, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pansexual Mat Cauthon, Past Relationship(s), Queer Character, Sequel, Shameless Smut, Surprise Ending, Ta'veren, Unbeta'd, We Die Like Men, What-If, headcanons gone wild, sad things, wait how did this fluff get here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:55:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 32,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25439557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/officiumdefunctorum/pseuds/The%20Master%20of%20the%20Deck
Summary: Mat delays his escape from Tar Valon to teach Galad Damodred some lessons in the staff.(loosely sequential to"the things we lose"; you do not need to have read that to understand this)
Relationships: Mat Cauthon/Galad Damodred
Series: Dagger 'verse [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1842586
Comments: 17
Kudos: 24





	1. chapter one

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DiaryofaMadTheaterMajor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DiaryofaMadTheaterMajor/gifts).



> Sequel to ["the things we lose"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22476325/chapters/53706925), but you don't need to have read that to enjoy this fic! But it will provide some helpful, if tragic, context for some of what Mat experiences in the fic.
> 
> So, this abomination came about because of a headcanon I have that Galad will occasionally just drop a dick joke or double entendre into conversation, but because he's _him_ , people will be left asking themselves: did he just...? surely not, I must be mistaken. But who _would_ pick up on it? A trickster character like Mat.
> 
> Anyway, I've done my best to keep Galad in character while also expounding upon my own thoughts of Galad's complexities, and why a character like Mat would like Galad.
> 
> **I hereby dub this ship: _LawfulChaos_**  
> 

The first ten minutes that Mat was awake in Tar Valon, all he could think about was the bloody One Power.  
  
“Bloody ashes,” Mat swore, and gave the white stone walls of the room he was in another quick examination.   
  
The thought of having the power used on him was more than just disconcerting. It made him feel helpless, like he had no power of his own, and no choice but to live with what had or could be done to him.  
  
It made him afraid, and Mat _hated_ being afraid. What was done was done, and he supposed he should be grateful that he was not dead or worse, but it lessened the feeling of helplessness not at all.  
  
When had Mat last felt like he'd had any control over what was happening to him, anyway?  
  
The thought called attention to one of the many things he was trying not to think about. To make bad matters worse, Mat's memory was a sieve, and a sizable hole seemed to hover around the events between losing Thom at Whitebridge and traveling the Ways to Fal Dara. Even if he'd wanted to look back on any of his achievements during his adventure away from home thus far, half of what had happened was just—gone.  
  
That the biggest hole was between Shadar Logoth and the Ways made Mat shiver. Light, but he'd come close to something truly terrible, having that dagger tied to him, he could feel it. Mat knew he’d been to Caemlyn, but could hardly bring so much as an image of the city to his mind.  
  
So much for Aes Sedai healing.  
  
“Bloody Aes Sedai,” Mat muttered, peering out of his high window at the city of Tar Valon before hunger had him turning to the tray of food that had been left out for him.  
  
Fleeting thoughts that the food might not be safe welled up in Mat’s mind, but he dismissed them as paranoia. It wasn't as if they'd go through the trouble of healing him just to poison him.  
  
As he ate, Mat examined the holes in his memory, and attempted to sift through what he could and could not remember concerning the sort of trouble he may have gotten himself into with Aes Sedai and the One Power over the past... weeks? Months?  
  
Light, had it been a year already since they’d left Emond’s Field?   
  
It must have, with Winter Night being when it was, and Spring coming as it should this year, at least.  
  
Thinking on the Aes Sedai and the seven Ajahs, Mat could remember _some_ things. He'd met a number of different Aes Sedai, by now, not just Moiraine, who'd dragged them all out of Emond's Field. Light burn him, but he’d hardly been out of the company of one Aes Sedai or another for a minute even during the time he could remember.  
  
Leaving home for adventure had always been something Mat had dreamed of doing, but like _this?_ Mat wasn't sure milking his Da's cows wouldn't be worth it not to deal with Aes Sedai ever again, if it could be helped.  
  
Bloody memory. _Bloody_ One Power.

Mat scowled as he drained a cup of wine.  
  
Scarlet dregs swirled in the bottom of his cup, and Mat's thoughts drifted absently to the Red Ajah. They, at least, Mat shouldn’t have to worry about—much. They wouldn’t want him. Their job was to deal with men who could—

Mat’s eyes went wide.

_Rand._

Mat shot to his feet and stumbled, the empty cup falling over as he looked around wildly. A fierce ache shot through his head, and he grimaced, steadying himself on the chair back. As quickly as it had come, the feeling passed like it had never been.  
  
“What under the _Light_.” Mat rubbed at his face, trying to figure out what had just happened.  
  
For a moment, a feeling of panic, of _horror_ had shot through him, a soul deep pain like he’d just witnessed the death of a loved one. Not just that, but— _shame_. Like he'd been the one to kill them.  
  
It left Mat feeling shaky, and slightly ill.  
  
Shaking his head again, Mat sat down before his unsteady legs could give out on him and righted his empty cup. Pouring more wine seemed a good enough solution, for now, though he thought he might even go for one of Nynaeve's soothing tonics.  
  
As Mat drank, the strange feelings lingered, distant, before slowly fading to nothing.  
  
The Light save them all, _Rand could channel._  
  
Light, Rand could wield the One Power, could channel tainted saidin, and Mat remembered that much very well. An image of Rand sitting on the ground with the Dragon’s Banner spread out in front of him flashed in Mat's mind, though much around it was vague. Rand had _admitted_ to him and Perrin that he could channel.  
  
Through the vague feelings from before, guilt coalesced in Mat's mind, formless and sinister. Mat shivered. It was no wonder thinking of it had twisted him up, even if he couldn't piece things together precisely. Finding out had been… bloody ashes, Rand was his best friend, and he could _channel_.  
  
It was a death sentence, at least, but also a descent into madness and usually murder, mayhem, or both.  
  
Sitting there in the White Tower, Mat felt almost as if he was learning it again, for the second time. Fuck him, but his best friend could _channel saidin_.  
  
Something about that feeling, though, not from the memory, but from what Mat was sure was something he _couldn't_ remember. Something about the horror he’d felt.

Drinking down the last bit of wine in is cup, Mat felt uncomfortably like the feeling hadn’t been directed at Rand.  
  
Light, there were too many bloody _holes_ in his memory.  
  
Walking restlessly around the room, stopping every so often to nibble, some things seemed to be flowing back into place. Mat thought he could broadly recall the important bits of what had happened since leaving Fal Dara, though more often than not conversations were vague.  
  
Fain—Mat shuddered—the dagger, Verin, Ingtar and Hurin and the other Shienarans, Loial, Rand vanishing, some awful sights he wished he didn’t recall, Cairhien and a stedding, the ways—Light, the _black wind_ —and a portal stone.  
  
Mat paused, there, trying to parse what felt like another layer of forgotten memory. Blood and ashes, had he lived other lives? Had they _all?_

Shaking it off, Mat came finally to his last, clear bit of recollection.  
  
Falme, Rand, the Seanchan, and the—  
  
"Oh, _fuck._ "  
  
Mat nearly fell to the floor in a dead faint, thoughts of guilt and horror and sifting through memories seeming far away, now that he bloody remembered _this_.  
  
Bloody and bloody flaming fucking ashes, he—Matrim Cauthon of Emond’s Field in the Two Rivers, a farm boy of no great consequence—had blown the flaming horn of bloody Valere, and then _ridden into battle_ with the shade of Artur Hawkwing.  
  
Chest tight, Mat forced himself to breathe.  
  
“Blood and bloody ashes,” he wheezed. Forget Rand, _Mat_ must have gone mad.  
  
Rand. Light, what had _happened_ with him? No. _That_ couldn't have been real, could it? Mat couldn’t be remembering him in the sky, he _couldn’t_ be! That was too strange, even for—  
  
The final, most important memory slid into place.  
  
“The Dragon Reborn?” Mat said aloud, wonder and fear coloring his voice. Was that real? Could he really be? Mat remembered something about a False Dragon, maybe, but. No, there was certainty there. Certainty that Mat didn’t think even Rand shared, but Mat just knew.

Rand. Rand al'Thor.  
  
Mat's best friend was The Dragon Reborn.  
  
That small feeling, like an echo, still chewed at his thoughts, like he was forgetting something important, but all he could remember were bits of the emotions attached to it, and not what had happened.  
  
Light, _Rand_. Mat’s gut twisted. He loved Rand, light help him, he _did_. If there were anything under the Light he could do for Rand, he’d do it, but channeling the power wasn’t one of the many things Mat Cauthon could do a thing about. He was a very resourceful man, but the One Power was a thing he or any sane man wanted nothing to do with. Nothing at all.  
  
Could anybody be expected to take that on? Even for someone they loved?  
  
Something itched in his mind at that thought, something almost warm, but those memories were gone, too.  
  
So much was gone. Growling in frustration at himself and everything he'd forgotten, Mat let it be.  
  
Maybe he and Rand could have been something back in the Two Rivers, before all that had happened since they’d left. But now? Light burn him, what else was Mat supposed to do?   
  
Looking at the empty carafe of wine, and what he had in his cup, Mat wished there were more, or something stronger. It was an uncomfortable truth, one that shamed him, but Mat wasn’t stupid or suicidal. Rand would have been dangerous if he had just been a channeler, but he was also The Dragon Reborn. That was—more than anybody could be expected to take in stride, wasn't it?  
  
Even if he was Mat’s best friend. Even if Mat loved him in a part of his soul that felt permanent.  
  
Shying away from those thoughts and the way they made his head ache and strange emotions curl in his guts, Mat drained the last of his wine and moved on to milk.  
  
 _A man has to look out for himself_ , thought Mat, ruthlessly.  
  
Then Mat remembered, not without guilt, that Egwene had all but tossed Rand aside to come here to the White Tower, which meant that, well—if he’d wanted to, if it had been _safe_ —maybe he could have...?  
  
That little scream of mental horror returned, and Mat quickly boxed the thought—selfish, even for him—back up and returned to the food.  
  
Impossible, now, anyway, Mat thought, morose. Then he stared at the crumbs of bread and cheese left of the enormous spread that had been there only minutes before, bewildered by how much he had eaten.  
  
“Bloody One Power,” he sighed, knowing he should be stuffed to his ears, but feeling like he could probably eat half again as much.  
  
“Well, it can do some terrible things. Terrible, but great,” said a smooth voice from the doorway.  
  
Mat leapt out of the chair again, only realizing after the woman gave him a slow once over and then raised her eyebrows with a vaguely impressed look that he was _in the altogether.  
_  
He yelped and scrambled to the bed for a blanket, his weak knees giving way just as soon as he’d wrapped it about his shoulders. Mat all but collapsed on the bed, turning wide eyes on the woman who’d come into his room.  
  
The woman—bloody ashes—was absolutely the most beautiful he had ever seen. Her dark, dark eyes watched him with amusement.  
  
“Who the bloody hell are you?” He blurted out, his mouth moving separately from his thoughts.  
  
Somehow, Mat managed to survive the ensuing conversation, though parts of it hadn't made much sense. Light, who had that woman been? It was all somewhat of a blur in Mat’s mind.  
  
“Bloody One Power,” Mat groaned, again, and thought about taking a nap. Just as he'd managed to dress himself, he was interrupted by none other than the Amyrlin Seat and the Keeper themselves.  
  
Blood and bloody ashes, but he needed to get _out_ of this place.  
  


* * *

  
  
Evidently, the Aes Sedai were more than a little wise to his desire to get gone, and Mat's plan of escape was working out accordingly. Which was to say, not well at all.  
  
He was fucking _trapped_.  
  
Talking with the guards had put Mat in somewhat of a surly mood, and he walked the paths of the Tower gardens aimlessly while he inspected the grounds for possible avenues of escape.  
  
A strange encounter with Else Grinwell, a surprising but welcome figure from his memory that Mat actually _could_ recall, left him soured to the entire notion of what might have happened to bring him here to the White Tower. Whatever those holes in his memory once held, it had ended with him blowing the bloody Horn of Valere and paying for it with his freedom.  
  
Growing noise, and finally a flurry of clacks and thumps from nearby piqued Mat's interest enough to redirect his steps. Mat made his way over to investigate what was going on, and, as he might've guessed, he’d found the Warder’s practice grounds.  
  
Light, just _watching_ some of those men training made him feel tired.  
  
“Burn me,” Mat said under his breath, wondering if maybe the tiredness was just him still being sick, whatever the Aes Sedai said about having healed him. The Amyrlin had said something about needing to keep himself fed, but he didn’t like being so easily tired.

Mat chose a conveniently located tree under which to sit, and decided that watching two young men doing their best to beat one another with bound practice swords was as good a way of passing the time while he got a bit of rest as any other.  
  
Idly digging some large pebbles out of the ground, Mat looked on and juggled them absently in his hands. The act brought some more hazy memories to mind, and a few blank spots. Like he should remember juggling more than he did, for how well he was able to do it.   
  
_Bloody ashes, Mat Cauthon, stop thinking about the holes in your memory for a few minutes and just enjoy the show.  
_  
The men he'd decided to watch were both nice to look at, so Mat didn’t mind the view at all. His eyes drifted over to one of the covered walkways adjacent to the grounds and he had to stop himself from snorting, or maybe scoffing.  
  
Light, but those were Aes Sedai watching, too. A small crowd observing the match, not two dozen paces and a bit of shrubbery separating them from him. They, Mat could tell, were watching much more intently than he was.  
  
“Warder hunting,” Mat mused under his breath, a little distastefully. The way some of them looked at the young men—who seemed familiar in some way, now he was paying closer attention—well, Mat thought they might have _more_ than just bonding a Warder on the mind.  
  
Burn him, but who could ever want to be bonded to an Aes Sedai, like that? Maybe there was more to it than he knew, but the way those women looked at the sparring pair made Mat feel twice as strongly that he very much did _not_ want to stay at the White Tower any longer than he had to.  
  
On the point of getting up again, however tired he was, Mat caught the men at a good angle and managed a clear look at their faces. Surprise of surprises—Light, but he _was_ getting sick of this—Mat recognized them, at least from descriptions. The one with reddish gold hair had to be Elayne’s brother, Gawyn.

The other one, though.  
  
Silently, Mat forgave the Aes Sedai their staring, because he was easily the most beautiful man Mat had ever seen.  
  
Now as interested in the bout as the watching Aes Sedai, Mat observed the gorgeous man move like a cat—no, more like a snake. Sinuous and deliberate, he wasted no movement or effort. Holding real steel in his hands, Mat thought would be as deadly as any viper, too.  
  
It had to be Galad, Elayne’s half-brother. From listening to what she’d said of him, he was little better than a trolloc. For all Mat knew of the man, he _could_ be. Thinking on it, Mat contemplated his own sisters; he figured from parsing the sibling speak that Galad was probably just a stick in the mud, an elder sibling who had ruined the fun more often than not.  
  
Though no one Mat had ever known with a face like that didn’t have one or two youthful indiscretions under their belt.  
  
 _Except Rand_ , thought Mat.

An echo of the mental scream he’d felt when he'd woken reared its head, and Mat retreated quickly from those thoughts. Bloody ashes, he _hated_ this. There was nothing Mat could do for Rand, now. Especially not when he was still stuck in the White Tower.  
  
Forcing his thoughts away from Rand, Mat finally returned his attention to the two shirtless Princes, only to see that the bout hand ended while his mind had been wandering. The two men broke off, and the watching women seemed to ripple with anticipation. Still shirtless, sweat shining on their bodies, Gawyn noticed Mat sitting there, and Mat froze, unprepared to be caught out.

With apparent recognition, the Prince of Andor nodded in Mat's direction, and with a quiet word to Galad, the pair began making their way toward him.  
  
With some amusement, Mat noted that Gawyn wiped sweat from his face and neck with utilitarian motions as he approached, but Galad just sort of glistened aggressively as he walked. Either the man did it on purpose, or he was entirely oblivious to the effect he had on his observers—Mat included.

Light have mercy, but he _was_ nice to look at.  
  
Prettiness aside, Mat squinted with a bit of suspicion, lips pursed in thought. There was more to Galad than met the eye, though there was a lot to meet the eye, to be sure. Noticing the women still staring, Mat resolved not to, and instead fixed his face and body in expressions of benign interest.

If part of Mat was absolutely cataloging this for later perusal, well, that was _his_ business. Mat supposed he'd find out soon enough if Galad was canny enough to weaponize his good looks.  
  
“You are Mat Cauthon, are you not? I was sure I recognized you from Egwene’s descriptions, and Elayne’s," said Gawyn with an easy grin, coming to a halt beneath the tree. Without waiting for Mat to confirm, Gawyn went on. "I understand you were sick? Are you better, now?” he asked, face morphing into polite concern.  
  
“I’m fine,” deflected Mat, feeling a kind of distant anxiety over his earlier tiredness.  
  
“Did you come to the practice yard to learn the sword?” asked Galad, and the Light burn Mat if his entire body didn't sit up and take notice of that deep, smooth voice.  
  
Bloody ashes, but that alone gave the lie to any assumption of delicacy he might have made from looking at Galad's face. Light, the man was almost ridiculous, standing there, sweat drying on his skin like he didn’t notice, or more likely dared not; not with all the Aes Sedai (and some of the Accepted) watching him like vultures.  
  
“I was only out walking,” Mat forced his mouth to say, shaking his head at Galad's question. At a bit of a loss for what to say to two attractive, half naked men while all of them were under Aes Sedai scrutiny, Mat just shrugged. “I don’t know much about swords. I think I’ll put my trust in a good bow, or a good quarter staff. I know how to use those," he added, distractedly.  
  
Both men cracked smiles at that, and Mat didn't know if he should feel eased or offended by heir evident amusement. Galad was nearly grinning.  
  
“If you spend much time around Nynaeve, you’ll need a good bow, staff, and sword to protect yourself, and I don’t know whether that would be enough,” said the man, putting the tip of his bound practice sword to the ground and leaning on it.  
  
Mat snorted, surprised at the comment. Gawyn aimed a funny look at Galad, glancing at Mat before looking back, expression betraying surprise.  
  
“Galad, you just very nearly made a joke!” He said with a hint of a smile.  
  
“I do have a sense of humor, Gawyn,” said Galad, with wry grace, giving his brother an exasperated look. “You only think I do not because I do not care to mock people.”  
  
Mat wasn't sure that Nynaeve wouldn't have considered Galad's comments a compliment or mockery, himself, so he held his peace. So far, Mat thought, Galad didn’t seem too bad, for a Prince.  
  
“That’s fair,” Mat said with a small laugh. “I enjoy a good prank, myself, but mockery is boring.”  
  
Something about Galad's posture and expression seemed to zero in on Mat, his eyes giving him a once over so brief that it may not have happened at all. Mat swore he felt his stomach flutter a bit, and wasn't sure he hadn't just passed muster on some test he hadn't known he was taking.  
  
“You should learn something of the sword,” Gawyn said, breaking the moment. “Everyone should, these days. Your friend, Rand al’Thor, carried a most unusual sword. What do you hear of him?”  
  
For a tense moment, Mat's brain spewed out those echoes of feeling, and though Mat shook them off with determined irritation, he felt some of the blood drain from his face, unable to entirely resist thoughts of his friend.  
  
 _Light, Rand. Where are you, what are you doing? Are you mad, yet?  
_  
“I haven’t seen Rand in a long time,” Mat responded, trying to sound casual, but ending up somewhere between hollow and suspiciously glib.

Gawyn had had an odd intensity to his look when he’d asked about Rand, and it immediately put Mat's back up.  
  
Of the two, Mat was starting to think that he liked Galad better. If nothing else, Galad hadn't been the one to bring up Rand and make those odd, unsettling feelings rattle around in Mat's head. That he was the pretty one was entirely beside the point. Mat knew Elayne was likely to be a bear about it, and nobody ever said he couldn’t be petty, so he blithely resolved to _keep_ liking Galad.  
  
“The sword isn’t the be all, end all, you know,” Mat directed at Gawyn, feeling an idea forming in his mind.

It was a _bad_ idea, but he hadn't yet met one of those he wouldn't try on for size.

“I think I could do pretty well against either of you, if you had a sword and I had a quarterstaff,” added Mat, folding his arms across his chest.  
  
Gawyn coughed at the boast, but Mat—and Galad, by the disapproving look he shot his brother—knew he was trying, politely, not to laugh in Mat’s face.  
  
The frank disbelief in Galad’s face was honest, at least.  
  
“You must be very good,” said the elder Prince, in a neutral sort of way. “Perhaps when you’ve recovered a bit more from your illness, you might favor me with a bout.”  
  
Something about how Galad looked at him as he spoke, the way he took in Mat's appearance, had Mat's heart beating faster. He could swear he saw Galad’s eyes wander in more than just evaluation of his state of recovery, and it took Mat a moment to parse what he was seeing.  
  
Bloody ashes. Was Galad _flirting_ with him?  
  
Unattractive was never something Mat would use to describe himself, by any means. Right now, though, he was skinny, tired, sickly looking, and—for fuck's sake, Galad was a _Prince_ , and almost offensively handsome. If it _was_ flirting, and Mat was rarely wrong about that kind of thing, that was both interesting, and, frankly, baffling.  
  
Mat tried to remember if Elayne had mentioned anything about Galad being interested in men, but Elayne was either very good at keeping secrets, or had no idea of Galad’s tastes. Or perhaps she did and just didn’t care.

Thinking of his own sisters, Mat had to stop himself from wrinkling his nose. It wasn't really something _he_ had any interest in pondering, that was for sure.   
  
Looking over to where Gawyn stood, _he_ seemed a bit baffled, himself, eyes moving from Mat to Galad in discrete surprise.  
  
Well, that settled it. Bad idea it was. Perhaps it was Gawyn’s evident surprise, or the way the women were still looking at Galad like cats watching a jug of cream, but Mat suddenly felt a lot more confident than he had just moments before. He supposed having a beautiful man flirt with you for no good reason had that sort of effect on a person.  
  
Admittedly, Mat also had a healthy desire to irritate both Gawyn and the Aes Sedai by making perfect Galad take notice of him—even if it did involve putting the fellow on his back, and not in the fun way. Sparring was an excuse to just _do_ something—anything—he was good at, because he’d failed to find a way out of The White Tower and bloody Tar Valon.

Galad could certainly be worth the effort, if it paid off.  
  
Deciding that his bad idea was better than any alternatives, Mat grinned at the two Andoran Princes, and rolled the dice.  
  
By the time he had handed both Gawyn _and_ Galad their asses, Mat was tired, hungry, sweaty, and immensely pleased with himself.  
  
Eyeing the swarm of Aes Sedai around Galad, Mat wasn't sure he'd get the chance to see if anything might come of the looks Galad had given him earlier, which was—disappointing, just a bit. Mat hadn’t done any real damage, he was sure, and not just because he could see Galad rising to his feet and politely disentangling himself from their all too solicitous hands. Even if he hadn't actually wounded the man physically, though, nobles could be awfully sensitive about wounded pride.  
  
Maybe he hadn't thought his bad idea through quite so much. At a loss for what to do with himself beyond returning the quarter staff, Mat looked around to see Gawyn had stepped aside to talk with the Warder who’d supervised the bout, leaving Mat standing at the edge of the yard.  
  
Gawyn wore a somewhat chastened look as he spoke with Hammar, evidently his mentor, and Mat experienced a quiet satisfaction when the Warder looked Mat’s way and gave him a respectful nod.  
  
Overall, Mat was feeling pretty pleased with himself in spite of alienating the beautiful man who had flirted with him, at least until he nearly fell over.  
  
“Ho there!” Came a voice from just the other side of him, and an arm caught Mat’s own as his knees tried to buckle. “By the Light, man, that was some impressive work with a staff, but if you were truly too sick to fight, you should not have done so.”  
  
Shaking free the fuzz that had accumulated in his mind— _and_ his vision—Mat let himself be steadied on his feet, and looked up into dark, concerned eyes.   
  
Light, Galad moved quietly for a tall man. Or maybe that was just the ringing in Mat's ears.  
  
“I’m better now,” Mat said, not feeling better. “Just... hungry, is all, I think. It’s been a while since breakfast.”  
  
Galad looked dubiously at the sky, the hour clearly well before midday, but helped Mat over to the shade of the tree under which he'd sat earlier. Mat noted, somewhat muzzily, that the small crowd of lurking Aes Sedai and Accepted followed their progress. With what seemed collective disappointment, they began to disperse when it was clear that Galad would not be fighting or training again soon.  
  
“That must get annoying,” Mat's mouth said, circumventing his brain.  
  
“It—can be somewhat disconcerting, yes,” said Galad diplomatically, sitting down beside Mat on the ground. His descent was much more graceful than Mat’s tired slump; bloody man even made sitting on the _ground_ look attractive. “They mean well.”  
  
Mat snorted. “They watch you like cats watching a fat mouse.”  
  
“Mister Cauthon, are you calling me fat?” Galad said, looking at him with a hurt expression.  
  
The question was asked with such a sincere sound of shocked offense, even Mat was thrown for a second, but only a second.

Mat grinned at the ground.  
  
Light, but his gamble had _worked_. He'd publicly trounced a Prince, and somehow it had formed a bond instead of a rift. Only just becoming aware of how little space there was separating them, Mat had to wonder if a bond was the _only_ thing that had formed in their very brief acquaintance.  
  
Feeling the thrill of mischief, Mat turned his head and gave Galad’s shirtless, somewhat rumpled body a slow look, stopping pointedly at the flat, toned muscles of his stomach. He raised his eyes back to Galad's face, eyebrow raised.  
  
“Well, if the boot fits,” Mat said, smiling.  
  
Galad huffed a quiet laugh. “I actually _was_ a rather chubby child. Mother despaired of my ‘baby fat’ until I grew near half a foot in one winter.”  
  
Feeling bold, Mat poked Galad’s belly, making the other man jump. “Well, there’s certainly none of that left, at least not where you can see,” Mat said with a wink, and was pleased to note that while Galad’s cheeks colored a little, he answered Mat’s wink with a smile of his own.  
  
“While you, friend, look as if you could stand to gain a bit of your own, lest a stiff breeze blow you away,” Galad retorted, poking Mat in the ribs.  
  
“Master Damodred, are you calling me delicate?” Mat asked with indignation matching Galad’s earlier tone, wondering the while if Galad was also matching his— _insinuations_. Surely the man could not be dense as well as beautiful. Not when he'd made the first moves in this game.  
  
“Well, I did have to catch you in a swoon,” he said, but the tone this time was one of actual sincerity. “Perhaps you should return to your quarters for a while. I am certain I did not mistake your look earlier for a fit of the vapors; you're unwell. That really was quite an impressive display with the quarterstaff, but you must be tired.”  
  
Mat was. Light, he could fall asleep here on the ground, but more than that, Mat was _hungry_. A growl from his stomach agreed.  
  
“Food first,” Mat sighed, and rose carefully to his feet, only feeling a little dizzy.  
  
“I shall accompany you," Galad announced, rising swiftly alongside Mat. "I would not wish to hear you’d fallen and broken your neck before I’ve had a chance to redeem my honor.”   
  
The contrary part of Mat made itself known with a slight spark of irritation at the presumption that he needed a bloody escort, but he quashed it. Not just because he probably _should_ take advantage of help offered, but because it was an excuse to rub his newfound bonhomie with the Pretty Prince of Andor in the faces of any White Tower resident they might see.  
  
“Ha! You’d be so lucky,” Mat responded, finally, and nodded toward a few faces peering out from a nearby arch. “Perhaps a shirt, though, if you insist.”  
  
Galad followed Mat’s gaze, and his back straightened minutely, the only sign of what Mat was sure must be at least a little annoyance.  
  
“Every time,” Mat thought he heard a Galad say under his breath, before the man turned his head back to Mat and smiled, the expression just—unabashedly sincere.  
  
Light, maybe Mat couldn't blame being weak in the knees only on lack of food.  
  
“Hold a moment, and I’ll guard your steps up to your room," said Galad. His hand brushed against Mat's arm as he left, the light touch of fingertips sending a thrill through him, one Mat couldn't quite remember the last time he'd experienced.  
  
Distant echoes of horror, and guilt, whispered through Mat's thoughts. As he watched Galad jog off to retrieve his shirt, Mat’s budding good mood was replaced with a slight feeling of illness, and dread.

Returning the quarterstaff, Mat leaned against the wooden weapons rack, closing his eyes and willing away the strange feelings, wondering a little desperately if he was better off _not_ remembering their cause.  
  
Opening his eyes, Mat observed Galad speak quickly with a somewhat bemused looking Gawyn, who waved Galad off with a laugh. Sensing a presence next to him, Mat nodded to Hammar, a little surprised that he'd been approached.  
  
"You could do well with a sword, if you had a thought for learning the use of one," said the rough voiced Warder.  
  
"Swords aren't really—for me," demurred Mat. "I can do well enough with the quarterstaff.”  
  
Hammar grunted. "Obviously," he said, voicing a humorless chuckle. "If I have the measure of you, though, you'll have want of a little steel in your hands one day. If you change your mind, I'd train you, same as those Princes."  
  
Though he was interested not at all, especially with the unspoken implication that he would be trained to serve as a Warder, Mat nodded his thanks to the older man.  
  
"I'm sure I'll manage, if it comes to that," said Mat, uneasy at the _if_ , and feeling very aware of the slender knife in his boot.  
  
"It's not a bad life, being a Warder," said Hammar, as if sensing Mat's thoughts. "Find a Gray, or maybe a Brown to bond you, if it's adventure you're after, but not a fight."  
  
Mat's skin fairly crawled at the idea of being bound to an Aes Sedai. Light, but being bound to the bloody Horn of Valere was bad enough.  
  
An idea struck Mat. A bloody sinister, outrageous idea. No. They couldn't actually think he would...  
  
Eyes widening, Mat nearly laughed aloud at the audacity. Light, but what if the Amyrlin seat intended him to remain trapped here, training as a Warder for one of these Aes Sedai? Perhaps some fresh young Green sister, so that he would willingly bind himself irrevocably to the White Tower; a tool for them to use, leverage against Rand, and the horn...  
  
"Why did you do it?" Mat blurted, watching Galad speak with his brother across the yard. "Why allow yourself to be bound?"  
  
Hammar considered Mat, and after a moment looked away, nodding in the direction of the Tower. "My Aes Sedai is a White, hardly leaves the White Tower," he went on, pausing for thought. "Nearly died fighting here during the Aiel War. She healed me, and then asked me if I was done fighting in wars."  
  
Mat waited, and Hammar shrugged.  
  
"I said I was. She asked if I wanted to be her Warder. I said yes. Twenty years bonded to Shana Sedai, and I've not regretted it once," said the man.  
  
Well, that was perfectly fine for Hammar. Mat thought he and every other Warder were a bit insane, but he supposed someone would have to be, to stick that close to Aes Sedai, let alone to have the One Power inside of them every day of their life.  
  
Grunting at Mat's expression, Hammar waved his hand. "Something for you to think about, while you're here."

When Galad started in their direction, waving at Mat, the man raised an eyebrow at Mat and looked him up and down. "Though I suppose the Prince has you occupied enough, for the time being."  
  
Hammar slapped him on the back, nodded to Galad, and walked off, his gravelly voice calling other trainees to order.  
  
For no reason Mat could readily identify, the Warder’s words and bloody slap on the back had him blushing furiously. Light, but he needed to get _out_ of this bloody Tower.  
  
"Shall we go?" Asked Galad, eyeing Mat's face but not commenting, for which Mat was grateful.  
  
"Please," he said, with feeling.  
  
Though Mat would never admit it aloud, he did have to lean on Galad a couple times as they climbed the steps to Mat’s room. The other man chatted idly about his training with the Warders, and asked Mat some questions about his own back in Emond’s Field.

Listening to Galad speak of his life, not just here in the Tower, but back in Caemlyn, Mat realized very clearly that they came from different worlds. On a map, the both of them were from Andor, but worlds separated them. Blood and ashes, but Galad had grown up in a literal palace. He was part of the Royal Guard under the command of Gareth bloody Bryne!  
  
Exhausted, hungry, and feeling every inch the ignorant farm boy, Mat was grateful to make it through the door of his erstwhile room in the Tower.  
  
Doubly grateful, because there was _food_.  
  
“Well, it appears you have been anticipated,” Galad said, eying the spread on the table with bemusement. There was easily enough food to feed four men laid out, and it was still at least an hour before the typical time for the midday meal.  
  
“Bloody Aes Sedai,” Mat muttered to himself, but sat in a chair to take off his boots before eating.  
  
Noticing Galad lingering by the door, Mat mused for a moment on the choices available to him. On the one hand, Galad was a bloody nobleman—burn that, he was a bloody _Prince_ —and what they had in common could be talked about in perhaps a few sentences. On the other, he hadn't been bad company thus far, he was bloody _gorgeous_ , and had shown an active interest in Mat that made him feel… _things._  
  
Well, he was nothing if not a gambler. Mat decided another toss of the dice was in order.  
  
Nothing ventured, nothing gained.  
  
“Why don’t you join me, Galad,” he said, phrasing it more as a command than question. “As much I could stand to get inside me, it’s a bit much for one man, and surely you mustn’t return to your swordplay so soon." Mat paused, boldly raising his eyebrows and giving the man a winning smile. "After all, you’re assisting a delicate invalid.”  
  
For a moment, Galad did nothing, and Mat held his breath, ready to curse himself for being a bloody crass fool. Finally, the Prince quirked an eyebrow at Mat, and came fully inside the room.  
  
A mix of smugness and relief washed through him. Mat _had_ read the man a-right. Gawyn must be too enamored of his brother’s goodness, and Elayne too contemptuous of it, to notice that he was, in fact, a man with _interests_. A very polite one, but still—interested.  
  
“I do not need to return to the practice yard just yet, no," said Galad, straight faced as he removed his own boots and placed them by Mat's. "Though I dare say I’ll need to improve my swordplay if I’m to face you with staff in hand another time, especially in full health."  
  
Delighted, and perhaps just a _little_ scandalized, Mat laughed. Blood and ashes, but the Prince of Andor, Galad Damodred himself, was exchanging dirty jokes with him.  
  
Pouring them both some chilled wine, Mat launched into a story about an archery competition in the Two Rivers from a few years back. He worked as many subtle comments about shafts and penetration into the story while the two of them loaded plates with the fare on offer. Galad never bat an eyelash.  
  
Mat thought he might be a little bit in love.  
  
Not too long into the meal, Galad was keeping pace and blithely regaling Mat with a tale of his own about his time learning melee weapons, the mace and flail among them. Straight faced, Galad provided flawless commentary on weight, size, and other men’s skill in handling the balls. Not to be outdone, Mat expounded upon his experience with horses, and his prowess at riding particularly spirited animals.  
  
In the middle of what could have been a perfectly innocent lecture on properly oiling and sheathing double edged long swords, Mat noticed Galad pause in his speech. Looking up from packing a roll with cheese, mouth still full of roast chicken, Mat saw Galad staring at him with something like awe.  
  
“By the Light, man, I’m beginning to doubt your sincerity concerning how much you really can fit inside you,” marveled Galad, wine cup suspended halfway to his mouth.  
  
Choking on a laugh, Mat hastily dropped the roll to cover his mouth, lest he spray half chewed chicken onto the table. Trying to chew, swallow, and laugh at the same time, he imagined he looked ridiculous, and couldn’t fault Galad when the man joined in the merriment.  
  
“Galad Damodred, you are a dark horse if ever there was one," Mat chuckled, catching his breath. "Light! I about lost the plot when you started in on Gareth Bryne snatching a flail from your brother and showing him how to give the ball a proper swing.”  
  
Something very much like a smirk settled on Galad’s mouth.  
  
“Really, Mat," he said, sipping demurely at his cup of wine. "You make it sound so crass. After all, you spent nearly a full minute expounding upon the importance of a properly oiled arrow shaft if you wanted to get full penetration on a target. Very sound advice,” finished Galad, nodding decisively.  
  
Mat laughed so hard he actually slid out of his chair and onto the floor.  
  
Which was how Leane Sedai found them when she came in a few seconds later. Galad settled back with a bland, pleasant look on his face, and Mat half under the table, roll of bread in one hand and laughing himself sick.  
  
“Matrim, Galad,” she said, by way of greeting.  
  
Ever polite, Galad stood and bowed to the Keeper.  
  
“Good Morning, Leane Sedai,” he said, smoothly, absolutely no trace of either guilt or anything incriminating in his face. Mat laughed harder, managing to wave weakly at the Aes Sedai from his place on the floor.  
  
“Is he quite alright?” Leane asked, eyeing Mat with bemused interest, before looking back to Galad. “I heard that he’d had a turn in the practice yard this morning. Did he hit his head?”  
  
“No, Leane Sedai,” said a Galad with a respectful shake of his head. “I do believe he is just a bit tired. He did some very vigorous work with the staff this morning. Put me on my back, in truth,” he said, with utter sincerity and a face like the innocent breath of babes.  
  
Mat cackled.  
  
“The man is a lunatic,” he heard Leane mutter over his own gasps for breath. “Thank you for looking after him, Galad. You really are too kind,” she said, and gave him a quick once over. “Too damned young, though. Such a shame,” she added, and departed with a shake of her head.  
  
“I can’t—” Mat wheezed, finally getting himself under control. "I can't believe you _said_ that," he finished, pulling himself to his knees and back into his chair.  
  
“I don’t know what you could be talking about,” said Galad, returning to his seat with equanimity. “I merely told the Keeper exactly what happened.”  
  
“Light, you put _me_ on _my_ back,” Mat laughed, wiping tears from his eyes. “I haven’t laughed so hard in months.”  
  
After saying it, Mat realized that it was true. Maybe somewhere in those holes in his memory, Mat had laughed, but he doubted it. If nothing else came of his association with Galad Damodred, Mat would be grateful for these few stolen moments of joy.  
  
Determined to make the most of his time with company, Mat pushed away the melancholy threatening him, filled a goblet with more wine, and drank half of it down. There was still food on the table, but he thought he’d had enough for now.  
  
“If I put you on your back, Matrim, I’ll be sure to do the thing properly,” said Galad, voice gone subtly lower, and Mat nearly spit out the mouthful of wine he’d just taken.  
  
Just sitting there, one leg crossed casually over the other, eyebrows raised as he took a delicate sip of his own wine, Galad could have been making a comment on the weather.  
  
 _There it is,_ thought Mat. _You_ have _been flirting, you bastard._  
  
Recovering quickly, Mat swallowed and sat back. “You think it will be that easy, then?”  
  
“Oh, I think one would be a fool to call you easy,” said Galad in a voice like a purr. The hair on Mat's arms stood on end.  
  
“Then you’d best brush up on your work with the staff," Mat began, voice a little rough. "If you mean to get me on my knees, let alone my back,” he added with a sharp grin.  
  
Finally, there was a very, _very_ slight hitch in Galad’s breathing.  
  
“Then I think I should be getting back to my... practice, if I do not mean to end up on my knees myself,” Galad said evenly, setting the goblet aside and rising gracefully to his feet.  
  
Mat let his eyes drift down to where Galad’s black britches were fitting just a bit more tightly than they had been.  
  
“Such a shame that would be,” he murmured, looking back up at Galad from under his eyelashes. It was a good look on him, he knew.  
  
“I find shame to be a waste of time, if there is no shame to be found in one’s actions,” Galad said with aplomb, putting truth to practice by blithely adjusting his britches to a more modest presentation.  
  
Light, now _Mat’s_ were fitting more snugly, and not from all the bloody food he’d eaten.  
  
“You have got this whole bloody Tower fooled, Galad Damodred,” Mat sighed out, shaking his head, impressed,  
  
“Not at all,” said Galad, making for his boots. The walk was familiar in its arrogant, smooth gait, though Mat couldn’t quite remember why. "I am simply who I am. What others choose to believe about me matters little when I know my own heart and mind."  
  
“So you let people think what they will,” Mat said, standing to see the man out.  
  
When they met at the closed door, Galad smiled at Mat, the expression as sincere as the one he'd graced Mat with out in the training yard. Light, but Mat didn't think he'd ever get tired of that fucking smile.  
  
“I should be grateful if you joined me at practice tomorrow morning, Matrim. I would enjoy learning a bit of the quarterstaff from you if you are feeling up to it," he finished.  
  
Bloody ashes, but the man didn’t even look down when he said it. Mat wanted to drop to his knees and suck him off right there.  
  
“I’m certain I can rise to the occasion,” said Mat, clearing his throat and holding out his hand to shake.  
  
The smooth bastard actually bent over Mat’s hand and kissed his knuckles like he was a bloody blushing maiden. Galad looked up at him through his eyelashes, and Mat actually feel his face heat.  
  
Light, that bastard knew _exactly_ how beautiful he was.  
  
Releasing Mat’s hand, Galad turned and walked that arrogant walk out the door before Mat could so much as let it fall.  
  
“Cat Crosses the Courtyard,” Mat muttered, the name floating out of his patchy memory as he watched Galad sashay down the hallway, eventually disappearing around a bend.  
  
Where had he seen that walk before? Someone...  
  
Those foreign, intrusive echoes slithered through his mind—shame, and horror—and Mat shook his head, dismayed that his good feeling from the time with Galad had been so thoroughly quashed. Bloody _memories_.  
  
Sighing, Mat made his way over to the bed, intent on taking a nap before exploring a bit more that afternoon.  
  
Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to spend just one more day in the Tower, if only to tweak some noses by associating with one unexpectedly devious Prince of Andor.


	2. chapter two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mat meets a stranger beneath an apple tree.

When Mat woke the next morning, it was hardly morning at all. False dawn was lightening the sky to the east. Perhaps because he had slept so much the day before—his nap had lasted until nearly supper—Mat didn’t even feel tired when he rose from the bed.  
  
As he washed himself and chose his clothing, Mat considered what the day would and might hold. With a slight grin, he thought about how he’d be spending some time working with Galad and the quarterstaff, likely not long after the breakfast hour.

With that in mind, Mat stepped into a pair of good brown trousers and a white shirt he wouldn’t mind being dirtied too much. He wasn’t wearing fool Lord’s clothing like Rand had, but there was nothing wrong with taking care of your appearance.  
  
Echoes of guilt danced across his thoughts, and Mat swore aloud. Light, what did these bloody feelings even _mean?_ Damn that bloody dagger and his fucking memories both.  
  
Food was for once not awaiting him, and Mat’s growling stomach decided what he’d do with the time before breakfast actually began. Feeling irritated, Mat pulled on his boots, figuring that the kitchens shouldn’t be that hard to find.  
  
The kitchens were, in fact, that hard to find.  
  
It was early enough that lamps and torches still lit the inner hallways of The White Tower, but the corridors were empty of life. After being turned around for the third time trying to find a set of stairs that went down to where he was sure kitchens should be, Mat found himself walking along one of the arched, windowed tunnels that connected one part of the Tower to another as it passed through the gardens.  
  
An unexpected scent of apples had Mat's mouth watering, and he turned at one of the archways that served as a door. Mat found himself in a walled courtyard, open to the sky. Unlike the more manicured gardens of the Tower grounds that he had seen yesterday, this had a more natural feel to it. Wildflowers and trees left to their business instead of cultivated in rows and patches.  
  
It had probably been done that way on purpose to appeal to some Aes Sedai's notion of wilderness, but in the steadily advancing light of dawn, Mat decided he liked it, anyway. More interesting, at least to a man who had grown up around farms and orchards, from what Mat could see of the modest courtyard, it contained at least one apple tree.  
  
An apple tree that was bearing its fruit out of season.  
  
“Odd,” Mat murmured, picking his way across springy grass toward the tree.  
  
Plucking an apple, he examined it. It certainly looked like just an apple. Mat cleaned it against his shirt and gave it a sniff. Feeling a bit foolish—it wasn't as if he'd be able to smell the One Power on it—Mat shrugged and bit into it.   
  
It was just an apple.  
  
“Bloody One Power,” he said around his mouthful, savoring the juicy sweetness.  
  
“It can do some marvelous things.”  
  
Nearly spitting out his half chewed mouthful, Mat whirled around, hand reaching automatically for a dagger that was not there anymore. Light, what _was_ it with people just appearing around him? Did nobody in this bloody Tower bother to announce themselves, or did they all just lurk in shadows and around corners to chime in with bloody cryptic statements?  
  
Calming himself, Mat observed a man seated on a stone bench beneath another apple tree, this one bearing the green variety. He was a large man, as tall as Mat if not taller, but broader at the shoulder and chest.  
  
In the dim light it was difficult to tell, but Mat though he might be handsome. Dark hair curled around his shoulders, falling into his face as he looked down at one of the green apples cradled in his large hands, none of his attention on Mat. He sat in a slump, as if tired, so he could hardly be a Warder, for all he was built like one. A servant, perhaps.  
  
“I suppose it can, at that,” Mat responded, curiosity piqued. The man didn’t look like he was ready to spring up and tackle him, but Mat kept an eye wary while he plucked two more apples from the low hanging branches and stuffed them into his pockets.  
  
On impulse, or perhaps because he never much cared for eating alone, Mat approached the bench with the strange man on it.  
  
“Mind if a join you for a bit? I’m Mat,” He asked, smiling at the man, trying for some of the old Cauthon charm.  
  
It was a lost effort, though, as the man shrugged without looking up from his untouched green apple.  
  
“If you wish,” he answered, in the same deep, slightly raspy voice that Mat had heard before. He did not offer his name.  
  
Nonplussed, Mat sat. “Thanks,” he said, and settled in to wait the man out.  
  
Something that often surprised the people that knew of him, but didn't _know_ him, was that Mat had no problem enduring awkward silences when he chose to. Silence didn't bother him when it was useful. This man was obviously thinking deep thoughts, and though Mat knew nothing of him, he seemed—sad. Mat didn't know if sitting here and eating an apple with him would help at all, but something in him couldn't just ignore it.  
  
Crunching through the first apple he’d picked, Mat studied the man out of the corner of his eye. It was still dark, especially under the tree, but he thought the man good looking, at least if brooding was something you liked.  
  
Perhaps he wasn't the best judge, though, considering Mat tended to like, well. _Everything_.  
  
The man was strong jawed, in profile, skin darker than Mat’s own, not unlike others from the Two Rivers. He sat slumped, like even sitting up that much took immense effort. Mat's eyebrows knitted, and he looked away, mirroring the man as he looked down at his own red apple.

Even the sound of the man's breathing was oppressive; each breath held for a beat before letting out in a sigh, as if the choice to keep breathing on every inhale was regretted on the exhale.  
  
Mat had always been able to read people pretty well. Helpful for flirting and gambling; it was a bad idea to if you couldn’t tell which men to steer clear of before you sat down to dice, or which were like to punch you in the face for complimenting their eyes. It might have been more useful if Mat were able to _stop_ himself doing it, though. Mat didn't know that he wanted to read anything more into this stranger next to him. He thought it might break his heart.  
  
In the diffuse light of breaking dawn, Mat could see that this man was incredibly sad. Sad in the way he’d seen grieving fathers who had lost children, or husbands their wives. Sad in the way of old men who had outlived everything beautiful in their lives, and waited for the end to come.  
  
Maybe he had come to the Tower to have someone healed, and the Aes Sedai hadn’t been able to help?  
  
Something told him the man wouldn’t even notice if Mat just got up and left. Like a passing breeze, there and gone, nothing to remark upon or even remember. It was a thought that made Mat’s gut twist in sympathy, perhaps because so much of his own memory was patchy.

Burn it, he always made a damn fool of himself in situations like this. Why should he care about this sad stranger?  
  
Mat had a flash of feeling, different from the other echoes; helplessness, desperation... and then the comfort of a hand in his. Just that. A person reaching out to let him know he was not alone.  
  
Mind made up, Mat drew an apple from his pocket and offered it to the man sitting on the other end of the bench.  
  
“Try one of these?” Mat asked, smiling again. “Maybe conjured up with the power, but they’re pretty good.”  
  
With what seemed a great effort, the man turned his head to look at Mat, and the apple he held out.  
  
Like the hoisting of a heavy sail, the man looked up and met Mat's gaze. Dull brown eyes speared Mat where he sat, and it was not too dark to see that the man had been weeping, and recently.  
  
“I—thank you, but no,” said the man after a few blinks brought some life to his face. He looked down at the apple Mat held. “I don’t care for the red,” he finished, and then a smile cracked his dark features—a bitter, twisted thing—and he looked back to his own green fruit.  
  
“Ah,” said Mat, pulling back his arm, strangely disappointed. “Well, to each their own. I’ve always preferred the green in pies, myself,” he went on, wondering at that dark smile.  
  
The man was silent for so long that Mat began munching on the apple he held, letting his eyes roam the small courtyard. The sky had lightened to the periwinkle of true dawn, and Mat imagined the sun would be peeking over the horizon any minute.  
  
“Sometimes, these are the only things I can force myself to eat,” the man said, eventually, and Mat looked over. For a moment, the man's face turned upward, thoughtful. “I imagine..." His face shuttered, and his gaze dropped once more to the apple. "Well. It does not matter what I imagine.”  
  
Mat watched him bite into the green fruit with what appeared to be an odd combination of resignation and defiance.  
  
“Are you—alright?” Mat asked, finally.  
  
Bitterness traced the man’s features again, even as he chewed another bite.  
  
“I exist,” he said, by way of answer. “And I do not know why. Not anymore.”  
  
Light, Mat had to have run into the one morose supplicant in the entire bloody Tower, and at an hour when everyone with a sane thought in their head was still asleep. Bloody ashes, but he always got himself into things he shouldn't.  
  
“Well,” Mat drew out the word, feeling that restless urge to just _do_ something creep up on him. “I had a thought to visit the kitchens and get a proper breakfast, if you wanted to join me. Though I can’t seem to bloody find them,” Mat added, forcing a laugh.  
  
The man uttered a low laugh in response, as bitter as the smile. He actually straightened a little from his slump. He was indeed taller than Mat, even seated.  
  
“I am—not _permitted_ , in the kitchens, I am afraid. I would...” The man hesitated, looking almost confused for a moment before continuing. “Offer to escort you to them, but with dawn coming I will soon be under guard, once more. I would be of little help.”  
  
Mat blinked in surprise. Wait, _what?_  
  
“Why would you be under guard?" He asked, confused, and a little apprehensive. "Do they really keep men so much on their heels in this bloody Tower you can’t so much as get a meal from the kitchens?”  
  
For a few moments, the man looked back down at his half eaten apple. He flicked his eyes over to lock with Mat’s, then closed them, his posture slowly collapsing once more  
  
“I am Logain,” he said, voice devoid of feeling. “I am not permitted in the kitchens, where I might find a knife and use it to open my veins.”  
  
Mat nearly dropped his own apple, shocked, though he now realized he should not have been.  
  
Logain. This sad, broken man was _Logain Ablar_ , the False Dragon in Ghealdan that Padan Fain had told them of so long ago on Winternight, before everything had changed. The man who had channeled saidin, been captured, and paraded through the streets of Caemlyn.  
  
A memory of Rand’s face, drawn and uncertain, seared through Mat's mind.  
  
 _Don’t you want to go see the False Dragon, Mat?  
_  
Pain flared in Mat's head, the echoes of feeling washing through him stronger than ever before. A sense of revulsion, horror, and shame so strong he thought he might vomit in the instant cascaded through his mind and body. With a shock as great as when it had come on, all at once the intrusive sensations ceased, leaving Mat sweating, pale, and confused.  
  
Without seeming to care about Mat’s reaction in the least, Logain let his eyes drift up to the lightening sky above them through the branches of the apple tree.  
  
Minutes passed, and Mat composed himself. Light, but he was sitting here with—with _Logain_. With a man who had channeled tainted saidin—like Rand—and been brought to the White Tower to be gentled.  
  
“I go nearly nowhere alone," said Logain, his voice even; thoughtful, Mat might even say, if he didn't know better. "Lest I happen upon a window large enough to leap from, or anything sharp enough to cut flesh,” Logain added, casually speaking of his own suicide. “I could direct you to the kitchens, if you can recall my words, though the novices will soon be awake, and they could escort you. You’ve the look about you of a man recovering from illness, so I am sure they would not balk at the request.”  
  
The man tilted his head in Mat's direction, a ghost of that bitter smile on his lips. The smile of a man without hope, a half-dead tiger caged in the den of his enemies.  
  
A sick feeling curled in Mat's gut, and he no longer felt interested in food.  
  
Mat was barely listening. Light, now that his mind had settled from that single flash of Rand’s face, he was very aware that he was sitting next to Logain, who had started a _war_ in Ghealdan. This was the man about whom only a story had needed to be told back home to create fear and tension. Dread.

But had Mat not encountered more dreadful things, since that night?  
  
The thing Mat didn't want to think about, that thing he had been avoiding as he looked for an escape, as he laughed with Galad Damodred, crowded into his thoughts. Logain had claimed to be what—what Rand _was_. Logain had been able to channel, just like Rand... and he'd been gentled. Captured by the Red Ajah and made safe, the One Power taken from him forever.  
  
And the Light have mercy, _this_ was the result. The best of all possible outcomes.  
  
“Um,” said Mat, at a loss. “Thanks, but I’m sure I’ll manage eventually.”  
  
Logain nodded once, then resumed his inspection of the sky.  
  
“No doubt my keeper will be able to call someone to assist you,” Logain said, woodenly. “I am not supposed to be here now, though there is nothing about that might harm me such that an Aes Sedai could not heal before it killed me.”  
  
Mat didn’t know what under the light he should say to that.  
  
“I’d just as soon avoid the lot of them,” Mat blurted, without thought. “I’ve got keepers of my own.”  
  
Logain’s eyes sharpened on Mat for a moment, and the sudden intensity made Mat shy away, apple core squishing in one hand as he clenched it tight.  
  
“Were you...?” Logain asked, his voice cracking, a dozen questions in the two words.

_Were you like me?_  
  
“Light, no!” Mat exclaimed after a moment, catching the man's meaning.  
  
Blood and ashes, why hadn't he fled as soon as Logain had identified himself?  
  
 _You know why_ , his thoughts whispered, and Mat's stomach twisted. _If you betrayed him, this could be Rand._  
  
No. _No_ , he’d never do that to Rand. Not even if he—was what he was. Memories of those strange feelings lurked in his mind, a seed of doubt finding fertile ground.

Mat shook off the feeling. No. _Never_. He couldn't—he _wouldn't_ —betray Rand to the Red Ajah and the White Tower.   
  
“No,” Mat said again, this time with more tact. “I’ve just been—sick,” he added. “Bloody Aes Sedai Are keeping a close eye on me, even though I’m better now.”  
  
“I see,” said Logain, and the light left his eyes like it had never been.

Though he should leave, Mat felt rooted to his spot on the stone bench.  
  
In the silence that followed, Mat thought about hopelessness. As his mind wandered in too many directions for coherence, his thoughts eventually coalesced on the thing he could not ignore. Logain had wanted to know if Mat had been gentled, too. That flash of life Mat had seen had been hope. Hope that, if Mat had been a channeler and then been gentled, he might be seeing a man who still possessed a will to live. Vitality. An appetite.

It had been hope for himself.  
  
Mat very much regretted following the scent of apples to this place.   
  
_Why didn’t they gentle you?  
_  
Light, he’d asked Rand that. _That_. He’d asked Rand, who had surely known by then what it meant, why the Aes Sedai hadn’t done this to him. Turned him into the same shell of a man that Logain was, now.  
  
The echoes of shame and horror washed through him, and Mat let them come.  
  
“Is it really that bad?” Mat asked in a quiet voice, before his better judgment could object.  
  
Logain twitched, the unsaid words twisting the knife, and Mat regretted the question. Damn his _bloody_ mouth.

The gentled man chewed disconsolately on his bite of apple, swallowed with what appeared to be difficulty, and examined the half eaten fruit before he spoke.  
  
“I—it is like I lived in darkness, and numbness, for most of my life, and then..." Logain inhaled, closing his eyes. "I was suddenly shown the _sun_. The beauty of colors, of fresh air, warmth, sweet wine, and sex; the thrill of battle and the sting of pain, all at once. _Saidin_. I—" Logain broke off, his voice hitching. "I cannot describe what it feels like to grasp it,” he whispered, and tears slid from his closed lids. “Pure life and reeking corruption. Light, the _taint_.” Logain’s mouth twisted, and he shuddered, as if remembering exactly that feeling.

_Light, Rand, is that what it’s like, for you?_

Morning had come in full, though the sunlight had yet to reach the courtyard over the walls, and Logain was silent for a long time.  
  
“Now," Logain finally went on, his voice rough. "I am in darkness, again. Numb. The best and worst part of me is missing. Cut away. Though sometimes I... sometimes,” he trailed off, and said no more.  
  
Mat didn’t understand. _Couldn't_ understand, and didn’t want to, if he were honest. The One Power was dangerous no matter who was using it, but from a man most of all. Now, though... now, Logain was just a man.

A man who had been able to channel, and now could not. Mat didn’t know much about what Logain had done as a False Dragon, other than starting a war in Ghealdan, but he was obviously no longer dangerous. He didn't appear to be much of anything, now. Just empty, and sad, and hopeless.  
  
Mat had no fear of this man, not anymore. Only pity, and a distant, helpless outrage.  
  
Gentled. What an insidious word; Logain had been sucked dry.

Was this justice? Light, if the Tower got their hands on _Rand_ —was Moiraine with him, even now?  
  
Mat’s guts twisted again, and the echoes assaulted him.  
  
 _Why didn’t they gentle you?_

“They just—keep you here?” Mat asked, eventually, feeling sick.  
  
“I am a trophy to the Red Ajah, and a lesson to all who come to or dwell within the White Tower,” said Logain, the second part sounding like a rote statement. “The Aes Sedai protect the world from men like me, and I am too valuable a piece of— _evidence_ , living, to be allowed to die, no matter my crimes.”  
  
The revelation was a stark reminder of just what and how much the Aes Sedai were willing to do to keep their hands on what they thought they could, might, or _would_ use for their own purposes.  
  
 _Like a noose around my neck,_ Mat thought, shuddering. No matter the lure of Galad Damodred's beautiful smile, Mat had to get out of here.  
  
“Matrim? Ah, there you are!”

“Say the Dark One’s name...” Mat muttered, _very_ far under his breath, though he doubted Logain was paying him any attention.

In spite of those thoughts, that warm baritone made his stomach flutter.  
  
“Hello, Galad,” said Mat, turning to greet the man, not needing to try too hard to pull a smile from the grim mood that had descended on him.  
  
“I saw you were not in your room, and—” Galad cut himself off when he saw Mat was not alone, halted near the arch of the entry. “Matrim,” said Galad, his voice hard, now, filled with an authority Mat hadn't yet heard from the soft-spoken Prince. “You should not consort with such criminals as this. Where is your keeper, Logain? I should think to have a sharp word with the Mistress of Novices about those assigned to this duty if they shirk it so freely.”  
  
Logain didn’t even bother to look up, though neither did he shrink from Galad.

For Mat’s part, he felt a spike of irritation that Galad would dare tell him what she should or should not do, even if it wasn’t really a bad idea.  
  
 _Prince_ , indeed. Mat shouldn't forget that.  
  
“I can harm no one, Damodred,” Logain sighed, eyes turning toward the sky. “Not even myself. My keeper will come with the dawn.”  
  
As if Logain's words had conjured it, the sun finally crested the walls. Golden light fell on his upturned face, casting the shadows beneath Logain's eyes in stark relief.   
  
“Dawn is come,” said Galad, with an upward glance of his own. Mat must have been down here for quite a while; he had not noticed the time passing. “I will not leave you walking freely when you should not be. Come, we will find Sheriam Sedai and she can sort this out.”  
  
“Really, Galad, is that necessary?” Mat began, an irrational desire to shield the man from Galad’s gimlet glare rising in him. “Let’s just go get some breakfast, he’s only sitting here.”  
  
Galad turned that sharp eye on Mat, and Mat matched him glare for glare. Though Galad's look lacked judgment, it did not lack certainty.  
  
“Do not forget what this man has done. For his crimes he is being punished, and part of that punishment is that he may not go about the White Tower unwatched. I will not see that punishment thwarted by laziness or compassion where none is deserved,” Galad pronounced, and looked to have every intention of making good on his declaration.  
  
Mat narrowed his eyes. He couldn't decide if Galad's words came as a surprise, or if he should even be offended by them.

Was compassion what Mat was feeling? Was that why Logain's gentling, his imprisonment, made Mat uneasy?  
  
Elayne had said that Galad was— _firm_ , in his principles.  
  
 _He does the right thing, no matter who it hurts.  
_  
“Logain, are you—ah, as I thought. You—oh!” A young woman’s voice interrupted Mat’s thoughts, and both he and Galad turned their fierce gazes in her direction.

An Accepted stopped short, wide eyed and pinned by the full force of their combined glares. From the slightly more breathless _'oh'_ that followed her first, Mat supposed she might just be flustered by the sight of Galad Damodred.

Who proceeded to promptly dress the young woman down for her lack of care and dedication to her ‘duty’.  
  
By the time Galad was finished, Mat was not sure if she were more apt to rear back and spit in his face like an angry cat, or break down in tears. Either way, she was red in the face, and Mat was not sure that she would have been unjustified in either case, at least to his mind.  
  
Evidently feeling his _own_ duty done, Galad gestured for Mat to come with him.

For a mutinous moment, Mat thought about staying with the young Accepted and Logain. His traitorous stomach chose that moment to make its own demands of him, though, and Mat grudgingly decided that Galad offered the more attractive prospect, and not just literally.  
  
So Mat went. As he stood to leave, though, he looked up at the apple tree and its green fruit. He picked one and stuffed it in his pocket with the others, casting a glance backward as he left through the arch.  
  
The only sign that Logain had ever been there was a half-eaten green apple on the stone bench.

* * *

  
A trip to the kitchens turned out to be unnecessary, as Galad lead the way back up to Mat’s quarters. Another large spread was laid out, and Mat again invited Galad to join him.  
  
The mood as they began to eat was decidedly cooler than it had been, yesterday. Galad offered polite conversation about the usual morning training routines for those under Hammar’s direction, but Mat's responses were clipped.

Light, but he couldn't stop thinking about Logain _bloody_ Ablar. He at mechanically, barely tasting the food, too preoccupied with his thoughts to put much effort into being charming, or even civil.  
  
“Is something troubling you, Matrim?” Galad asked, eventually.  
  
Mat looked up from the bread he’d been using to collect the remains of a boiled egg, ready to unleash the rough side of his tongue, but the expression of sincere concern on Galad’s face took the wind out of his sails.  
  
“Not really,” Mat muttered, feeling suddenly tired. “Just. A lot on my mind.”  
  
Logain had only been a False Dragon, and he was a prisoner here. Mat had blown the _bloody Horn of Valere_ , and was apparently ta’veren, to boot. Light, they’d probably not let him go until the actual Last Battle.  
  
Mat rubbed at his temples, feeling an ache start up behind his eyes.  
  
“If it is about Logain, you needn’t worry he’ll be any trouble. Doubtless you’re more than capable of defending yourself, but I’ll be speaking to the Mistress of Novices about him being left to wander unattended. He should be in a cell in the Tower dungeons,” Galad added, with a frown.  
  
Unable to muster his former irritation at Galad's rigid assessment of Logain's current conditions, Mat only matched Galad's frown. Blood and ashes, but Mat wondered if _he_ might be put in the cells, eventually. And what of Rand, who really _was_ the Dragon Reborn?  
  
Those bloody feelings washed over him like a slow wave, and Mat swallowed hard. Burn it all, but he was getting so _sick_ of that happening.  
  
“Mat, are you well?” Galad asked, and Mat heard the scrape of his chair as he stood up. Mat opened his mouth to speak, but Galad was already at his side, feeling his face and forehead. Too bewildered by the gesture to bat the hand away like he did when Nynaeve or his Ma had done it in the past, Mat just watched Galad’s face, drawn in concern.  
  
“Fine,” Mat said, finally leaning away from the cool press of fingers on his face. Galad was standing very close. “Just," Mat pursed his lips, wondering if speaking his mind was worth it. "Do you really think that? About Logain, I mean?”  
  
Galad’s brow furrowed, and he took a step away from Mat with evident reluctance. “Think what?”  
  
“That he should be locked up," Mat began. "I mean, he told me—”  
  
“You spoke with him?” Galad sounded surprised.  
  
“Well, yes," Mat answered. "I wandered in there to get an apple. I didn’t know who he was, so I sat down and, you know, made friendly conversation,” Mat shrugged. “It’s not like he could have hurt me, the way he is,” he added, in a darker voice.  
  
“He does not deserve your pity, Matrim,” Galad said, though it lacked his earlier firmness. “He was a False Dragon and a channeler of saidin, but in declaring himself he also fomented rebellion and war in Ghealdan. Hundreds died or were harmed by his actions, and he is facing just punishment for them.”  
  
Justice, Mat thought, was a very fickle thing, especially in the hands of the White Tower.  
  
“Logain said they keep him here, where he can be seen, as a—a _lesson_ , or a reminder, I guess,” Mat said, watching Galad move back to his chair. “Galad, you’ve been here longer than I have. I was with the man for maybe twenty minutes, and he’s—" Mat felt some of his earlier outrage bubbling up, and he sat forward. "Bloody ashes, Galad! A shell has more inside of it than that man. Sticking him in a cell would be kinder than parading him around like they do. They’re not just punishing him, they’re _using_ him.” Mat paused, swallowing. "They're bloody torturing him."  
  
A minute passed in silence, and Galad seemed to be giving Mat's words due consideration. Finally, he raised steepled fingers to his lips and sat back, leveling his gaze on Mat.  
  
“It is not your place or mine to question The Tower’s judgment, in this," he said, ruthlessly concise. "In Ghealdan, Logain of House Ablar would have been executed as a traitor, as he would have been in Andor. But Logain was a channeler, and he was captured by Aes Sedai. In Saldaea, Mazrim Taim was captured by Lord Davram Bashere—if Queen Tenobia so chose, she would be within her rights to have Taim executed out of hand, but she too has deferred to the White Tower."

Galad paused, and rested his hands on the table, tapping his fingers. He looked at Mat, considering him, and Mat raised an eyebrow.  
  
"How much do you know of Aes Sedai, of the politics of the White Tower, and of Tar Valon?" Asked Galad.  
  
Somehow, Galad managed to ask the question in a way that didn't make Mat ashamed of the only answers he could give.  
  
Mat shrugged, taking a sip of wine before he responded. “Before I left the Two Rivers, only some stories and rumors. I guess some of it was farm country superstition, but not as much of it as you’d think. I know that they usually have their way, by one means or another, and that a smart man steers clear of them and the One Power. I know that I’d bloody well like to be free of them.”  
  
Galad cracked a smile, and Mat offered a rueful grin in return.  
  
"May I offer you some insight?" Galad asked. When Mat assented, Galad reached for his goblet of water and took a long drink.  
  
“In Andor—or Caemlyn, I should say—the White Tower and Aes Sedai are held in great esteem, but for many it is a respect born of fear, and rightly so,” Galad sat straighter, tapping his fingers on the table as he thought before speaking again. “The Aes Sedai know a great many things they do not deign to share, and the machinations of the White Tower are not to be taken lightly. More than once to my knowledge, Elaida Sedai advised my mother to actions she would not have otherwise taken, but for her trust in what Elaida and The White Tower knew, but kept to themselves.” Galad didn’t sound pleased with that bit, and Mat couldn't help but agree.  
  
Sitting back in his chair, but still poised, Galad went on. “These women, they are..." Galad waved a hand. "Powerful beyond comprehension, in more ways than only their ability to wield the One Power. However, that power has waned over the centuries, such that in a handful of nations they are not only unwelcome but not unlikely to be killed if discovered."  
  
Light, Mat knew learned that the Whitecloaks were bad, and that by association Amadecia was a hard place for women who could channel, but—that _much?_ Even now, knowing more of Aes Sedai than any sensible man from the Two Rivers would want to, he'd had no notion that people could be, and _were_ , so hostile to them.  
  
"It is my belief," Galad went on. "That the state of affairs concerning The White Tower and such times as we live in makes them more dangerous, not less. I do not—” Galad hesitated, and seemed to struggle with his thoughts a moment before continuing. “I do not believe that there is anything inherently evil, or wrong, about women able to wield the One Power, or the education women receive here, nor the training the Warders provide to men like myself and Gawyn. But it was the One Power that broke the world, Matrim, and that, people everywhere remember."  
  
"We certainly remember it in the Two Rivers," Mat remarked, idly chewing on a slice of pear.  
  
Galad smiled at him. "It is often a folly of the nobility that they assume farmers and their like to be ignorant, and not just... lacking reliable information," Galad hedged.  
  
Mat didn't think that was far off from calling them ignorant, but he also couldn't deny that the life he had lived in the Two Rivers had kept news from outside to a minimum. There wasn't much in the way of politics being talked of that didn't have to do with the Village Council or the Women’s Circle, disparaging the Taren Ferry folk, or stories out of the travels of Jain Farstrider.

Before Mat had left with Moiraine Sedai, he _had_ been ignorant. Not of life, but just—events, and of international politics that had been Galad's life since he was old enough to eavesdrop on a conversation, Mat bet.  
  
They shared a couple minutes of silence, both of them eating a bit more. Mat was very aware of the table that separated them, and despite his earlier irritation with Galad, he rather wished that they were sitting closer. Talking like this, hearing Galad's thoughts on the White Tower, could have been much more pleasant if Mat had been able to lean his head on the man's shoulder, _feeling_ the hum and rumble of his smooth voice, and not just listen to it.  
  
"So, how does the Aes Sedai using Logain's suffering fit into all that?" Mat asked, eventually.  
  
Galad cracked a smile, but quickly turned serious. "Make no mistake, the White Tower and Tar Valon are a nation, and while they may be able to claim some neutrality, it is a costly one. Their priorities are... their own, but now a great priority, perhaps their main one, is in consolidating their power where it is strong, and surviving, like any nation. Surely you have noticed how few Novices and Accepted there are, for such an enormous building?”  
  
Mat had attributed the tomblike emptiness of the Tower to part of its mystique, but—Galad had a point. Thoughtfully, Mat nodded.  
  
“The White Tower dwindles, and its enemies and decriers are watchful for any sign of weakness. One of the only reasons a nation like Tear or Amadecia would accept Aes Sedai on their soil would be to deal with a man who could channel, or in the case of Logain and Taim, a False Dragon. When nobles and ambassadors come to The White Tower, they will see Logain—defeated, gentled, and harmless—and it is a display of power and control both,” Galad finished.  
  
The Two Rivers was not so different a place that power struggles and tradition were foreign to Mat's understanding, but—was the suffering of any person being used for political gain the right thing to do? Was it _justice?_  
  
“They’re desperate," Mat said, voicing what Galad had not. "And they’ll do whatever they have to, by whatever means they deem necessary, to hold their position,” he added, flatly, a ball of lead in his gut. Mat _had_ to get away from this place, and soon.  
  
Galad sighed through his nose, but nodded, a wry twist to the set of his mouth.  
  
“An—indelicate way of putting it, and I’d not let Siuan Sanche hear you calling any Aes Sedai desperate if you like your skin where it is,” he added, playfully.  
  
A humorless laugh escaped Mat's chest. “Oh, I think Siuan Sanche would like me to keep my skin,” he said, darkly.  
  
So the White Tower kept Logain alive to use him, and they’d keep Mat here to use him, too. If they had to fake his death and hide him in the lowest dungeon, they’d do it. What line would they draw, if everything Galad said was true?  
  
What would they do to him? Light, what would they do to _Rand_ , who had one of the bloody women all but perched on his shoulder, without Nynaeve or even Egwene there to help?  
  
 _Without me there, either,_ Mat thought, those bloody feelings brushing against his mind.  
  
“It's not right,” said Mat, quietly, looking out the window, seeing the city of Tar Valon beyond the walls of the White Tower. “What they've done to Logain. That's not justice; it's cruelty.”  
  
When Mat turned his eyes back to Galad, it was to see the man staring into his own goblet of water, a troubled expression on his face.  
  
Sensing he may have said too much, at the last, Mat figured now was a great time to change the subject.  
  
“I recall," he began, hesitating a little. "That you requested a lesson in the staff. Does that still interest you?"  
  
Galad rose slowly, seeming distracted for a moment, but eventually he straightened, eyes calculating as he looked at Mat; there was a heat in that look, and Mat felt an answering flare in his belly.  
  
“Yes,” Galad said, finally. “Yes, it does. I've some things to see to, and the grounds will be occupied by the youngest student for some time, yet. Come down to the yard in an hour; I’m sure there will be plenty of Accepted awake and eager to watch you and I at work with our staves."  
  
For the first time that morning, Mat smiled for real. Galad kept his face perfectly bland, and Mat even managed a chuckle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut next chapter, I promise.


	3. chapter three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mat and Galad get better acquainted, and Mat struggles to understand what has happened to his memory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HERE THERE BE SMUT

With Hammar’s permission, and a speculative look from the Warder himself in Mat’s direction, Galad was given leave to train with Mat for part of the morning, or until Mat tired.

The stipulation rankled; Mat felt _fine_.  
  
There were few situations in which Mat was ever nervous. Fighting with a quarterstaff was not one of them. His Da had begun teaching Mat the use of it as soon as he was old enough to swing a stick of any meaningful size, and when his sisters had begun growing, he'd had the job of teaching them, as well.  
  
It was a point of pride Mat didn't disclose that Bode could best most boys her age, and even some older. She'd even scored touches on Mat, a handful of times.  
  
Stripping to their britches, Mat’s a sturdy brown wool and Galad’s a finer looking gray, Mat started them with a practice bout to gauge the Prince's skill with a farmer's weapon.  
  
It was—less than impressive.

The man sometimes treated the staff like a sword, and sometimes a spear. While he managed to hold his own, Mat would have bet on a Two River’s lad of fifteen summers—and his sister—against Galad in the festival contests. To his credit, when Mat told him that to his face, he took the criticism with aplomb.  
  
So Mat showed him the exercises his Da had taught him, and the proper way to keep the staff balanced when spinning it. Mat spent a minute being stymied by Galad’s epiphany about levers and fulcra before whacking him in the back of the knee, and showing him a few of the dirtier tricks he’d learned not just from his Da, but his Ma, as well.  
  
Plenty of women in the Two Rivers entered the contests and beat their opponents. Ma had told him over a quiet cup of tea that the women folk of any land had reason to take up weapons, and maybe they weren’t the fierce fighters of the Borderland women, but any Two Rivers girl knew how to swing a staff at a man and keep him down long enough to protect her virtue and her purse.  
  
Nynaeve hadn't walked around with a thumping stick just for show. Knowing Galad had faced the rough side of her tongue and her ire, the thought that she might also have hit him with a stick if she'd had a mind to brought a smile to Mat's lips.  
  
By the time the tenth bell had rung, Mat and Galad were both sweating and working forms in the heat. Hammar watched from his place by the racks of weapons, and Mat nodded to him, receiving a nod in return.

To his utter lack of surprise, there was indeed a small audience of Accepted and Aes Sedai gathered in their usual place to watch. That Mat observed some of them watching _him_ and not just Galad was—alarming.  
  
Not feeling any qualms about using the man to shield himself, Mat set Galad to a spinning exercise that was as fun to watch as it was useful in creating momentum. It was the kind of thing that looked impressive, but was also necessary for a good smack to the head or knees. Hurt like a son of a bitch when messing it up, too.  
  
Mat left Galad to it to get a drink of water, and it took him past the gaggle of women who’d begun watching them work. Ignoring them, and trying not to wish for his shirt back, Mat settled himself against the water barrel to watch Galad.  
  
Holding the tin cup, Mat leaned on his staff, and observed while the Andoran Prince spun the staff slowly through the form. To his credit, he learned quickly, and never seemed to get something wrong more than once or twice. Galad, intent on the form, only glanced at Mat once, and Mat raised his cup in Galad’s direction.  
  
“Come on, Damodred! A Two Rivers farm boy of thirteen could move his staff faster than that,” shouted Mat, grinning as he watched the play of muscles in Galad’s back and arms, reveling in the cheap, boyish joke.  
  
The bloody man didn’t miss a beat when he doubled his speed. Mat laughed aloud, knocking his cup against the barrel in appreciation. One of the Aes Sedai nearest him sniffed loudly enough for him to hear it where he stood.  
  
“Switchback!” Mat called out, and though Galad hadn’t been expecting it, on the rotation that went behind the back, Galad turned his body and rotated his elbow to change the direction of the spin, only losing a little speed, and failing to brain himself as Mat had done countless times.  
  
“Strike form high, then low!” Mat called out, curious to see if Galad could do more.  
  
Halting the spin with both hands on the staff, Galad moved into a quick flurry of jabs with both ends, focusing on first the points of the upper body, then lower blows aimed at where an opponent’s knees, groin, and feet would be.  
  
“Forward sweep, strike back under left, full extension to the center! Strike hard!”  
  
That last part, Mat wasn’t sure why he included. It wasn’t something the exhibition contests ever used, and it was something his Da had only had him practice with great care, and never against an opponent. It was a killing blow, and Mat had only shown Galad the handful of those he knew the once.  
  
Galad fumbled the sweep, just a bit, but he whirled the staff smoothly out of the maneuver to jab back under his left arm at an invisible opponent behind him, then thrust both arms forward with a cry that bespoke the force and intention behind the blow.  
  
Holding the position for a moment, chest rising and falling with slow, heavy breaths, Galad only moved after a few novices—and some of the Warder trainees—began clapping, a sound that was quickly silenced by disapproving glares from the Aes Sedai in attendance.  
  
Galad relaxed the form, spun the staff so it tucked into his elbow, and made his way over to Mat, even nodding politely to the onlookers as he passed them. His tanned skin once more glistened aggressively in the light of a clear day, which Mat didn't mind watching in the least.  
  
Mat held out a full cup to him, and Galad nodded in thanks before drinking it down.  
  
“You’re a natural drillmaster,” he said, after he’d handed the cup back. “Though I doubt many but the nobility would have understood your final command. Do they teach the old tongue, in the Two Rivers?” He asked, with interest.  
  
Mat felt a shiver run up his spine. “The what now?”  
  
Galad lifted an eyebrow. “ _Carai ninte, druna batthien_ ,” Galad repeated. “‘For your honor, push hard’, or ‘strike’ hard, was it not?”  
  
Mat laughed, a little nervously. “Just—something I’ve heard, before."  
  
Mat would not have bet that Galad actually _believed_ that bit, but the man let it go, which was nice, because Mat would much rather be distracted by Galad than have Galad be distracted by Mat's strange bouts of the Old Tongue.  
  
"Bloody ta'veren," he mumbled, under his breath.  
  
Mat and Galad worked with the quarterstaff for maybe another hour before Hammar called Galad over for his own purposes, leaving Mat at a bit of a loose end. Galad had offered to include Mat in the sword practice, but Mat had no interest in looking the fool in front of anyone—especially Gawyn, who had something of a judgmental look about him—so he begged off to go try to do some reconnaissance about the city, promising to return later.

* * *

By the time lunch had passed, it was more than clear that Mat was definitely _not_ getting out of Tar Valon without some kind of miracle, and he was feeling a bit desperate, and very, very trapped.  
  
Without his feet giving his brain any real choice in the matter, Mat found himself wandering back into the training grounds. Galad was hard at practice with someone Mat thought might be another Warder, and they were using blunted steel rather than bound lathes.

The ringing of steel brought to mind some things Mat remembered well, and others that were just barely echoes, holes that had memories around them, but nothing inside.  
  
Damn that bloody dagger and his _bloody_ memories, both.  
  
Disappointed, and half crawling out of his skin with anxiety—Light, he didn’t even want to go back to his rooms for _food_ , right now—Mat stripped off his shirt once more and snatched a quarterstaff off of the rack.

Maybe putting himself through some paces would help. He’d felt good working with Galad this morning, and he wanted some of that back, right now.  
  
Which was why, not half an hour later, he found himself once more fighting Galad—this time sword to staff, an audience again attending their sparring.  
  
Galad had wised up to some of Mat’s tricks. It wasn’t so easy to strike him, this time, and evidently Galad was no longer holding back.  
  
All out or not, Galad had yet to land a blow, and was surely smarting from the four or five whacks Mat had gotten in. The Prince did manage to foil a few of the grander gestures, even leaping over a sweep that would have taken him out at the knees.  
  
Grinning, Mat _reveled_ in it, his anxiety momentarily gone. Burn whatever Elayne said about her brother, Galad made Mat feel good. Being around him, fighting him—Light, even _arguing_ with him—were a balm to his nerves and his sundry worries.  
  
Finally feeling a stirring of hunger, Mat decided he may as well go out with a bit of a show for the small crowd of Warders and other interested onlookers that had gathered. Waiting until Galad withdrew from a vicious set of attacks that even Mat had a hard time evading, let alone batting aside, Mat extended the staff in one hand and whirled it at Galad’s face, forcing him back and giving Mat some breathing room.

_A man with a staff will always have the reach_ , his Da had said.  
  
Mat followed through with the sweep, caught the middle of the staff, and shoved it hard into the packed earth. Ducking a strike Galad aimed at his chest, Mat pivoted, planted his feet and, using the staff for leverage, hurled himself backward and over Galad’s shoulders in a flip that would have made Thom Merrilin proud.  
  
Hoping the surprise was enough to give him the moment he needed, Mat landed, and was delighted to be presented with Galad’s muscled back. He could have gone for the standing choke, but Galad was stronger than him, probably even when Mat was in full health, and he still had a bloody _sword_.  
  
So he struck at the back of his knees, forcing Galad down hard onto them. Mat leapt upon his back and bore him forward to the earth, forcing Galad to abandon his sword or risk stabbing himself with it. Mat whipped the quarter staff around to secure him in a choke hold that had a whole lot more leverage, what with Mat sitting on him, and all.  
  
Mat grinned, arms straining as Galad attempted to break the hold. The man squirmed beneath Mat, and _Light_ , that was not the appetite Mat had intended to whet.

His groin pressed against Galad’s lower back, just at the swell of his ass, and—to his slight horror—Mat felt his cock responding to the movement and friction.  
  
Beneath him, Galad finally stilled, their harsh breaths breaking the silence before Galad relaxed and let his hands fall away from the staff in a yield. Mat continued to hold him, just for a moment, savoring the contact. He inhaled the scent of sand and sweat from Galad’s hair, a shudder passing through him before he gently released the hold.  
  
Galad got his elbows beneath him, and pushed his body up onto his hands, Mat still kneeling astride his back. Before Mat could quite release him, he swore that Galad undulated to brush his ass along Mat’s groin.  
  
Grateful that his face was already flushed from exertion—Light, there were people _watching_ them!—Mat sat backward. Boldly, Mat slapped Galad on the thigh, dangerously close to his ass, and let him up.  
  
“You realize,” Galad said, panting and dusting off what grime he could from his sweat slick body, giving Mat a look that held _more_ than a little heat. “That something so ostentatious is unlikely to work more than once?”  
  
“Worked this time,” Mat shrugged, grinning and leaning on his staff. “Got you on your knees, at least for a moment.”  
  
For a drawn out moment, Galad just looked at him, dark strands of hair escaping the knot atop his head and sticking to his beautiful face as a smile broke across it.  
  
Mat felt the eyes of the people watching them, and didn't care at all. He thought he heard one of the Accepted behind him giggle. He couldn’t blame her. Damn, but Galad _did_ have a nice smile.  
  
“Come, let’s put these into the weapons room. Training is nearly done for the day, and they’ll need to go there soon enough," said Galad, nodding to Hammar where he watched before beckoning Mat to follow him.  
  
Without saying anything, Mat followed Galad, curiosity piqued as they both draped their discarded shirts over their shoulders and left the training ground. Galad headed through one of the archways and into a quiet corridor, disappearing ahead of Mat through a door a few paces down.

Mat followed, thinking about what they might have to eat for supper.  
  
Not two steps into the room, Galad, fast as a striking snake, closed the door and crowded Mat up against it. The sudden sensation of skin and hard muscle pressed against him drew a gasp of surprise from Mat, and his eyes flew wide as Galad brought his face close, a solid forearm across his chest pinning him in place.  
  
“You,” Galad spoke in his deep, smooth voice, sounding utterly unruffled. “Are a temptation that I did not anticipate.”  
  
Mat felt heat rise to his cheeks, and other things rising as well. “I’m full of surprises,” he managed to get out in a slightly breathless voice.  
  
Galad hummed deep in his throat, eyes lidded as they traced Mat’s face from scant inches away. With the hand not attached to the arm pinning him against the door, Galad boldly caressed Mat’s exposed flank. Mat shuddered at the touch, eyes drooping nearly closed.  
  
Nose brushing his, Galad gripped Mat’s side just below his ribs, thumb stroking along the hair below his navel. “Shall we see what other surprises you are full of?” Galad asked, voice nearly a purr.  
  
“ _Light_ yes,” was barely out of Mat’s mouth before Galad was pushing the words right back in with his own.  
  
It was not a tentative, tender kiss. Like the way he fought with Mat, Galad kissed him with a combination of focused intent and technical prowess that had Mat’s toes curling, the quarterstaff dropping from his hand so he could bring both hands up to clutch at the back of Galad’s head, fingers plunging into the hair and pulling it out of its knot.  
  
Mat undulated with the kiss, arching his hips up into the press of Galad’s body, feeling the slide of their sweat slick flesh, the rasp of dust and grime from where Galad had been pressed into the ground beneath him.  
  
The thought made him moan, deep in his throat, and he opened his lips to Galad’s tongue as it dived into his mouth for a quick sweep, then retreated, lips closing to suck on Mat’s lower lip.  
  
Light, no clumsy tongue fucking from an Andoran Prince, it seemed.  
  
Galad pulled back and nipped at Mat’s lips, kissing his jaw, and Mat panted for breath as he arched his head back against the wood of the door, letting Galad work his neck over, cheerfully taking advantage of the opportunity to let his hands roam over Galad’s stupidly perfect body.  
  
Except, it _wasn’t_ perfect. Even just by touch, Mat could feel the ridges of scars on Galad’s skin, how one nipple was slightly larger than the other as they pebbled at his touch. Mat swept his hands down the damp skin of Galad’s back, reaching his goal with a lusty, double handed squeeze, palming the globes of the ass he’d been looking at for almost two.

A firm thrust and the grind of clothed, hard flesh had a growl rumbling from Mat’s throat. Light, he could come like this, and happily.  
  
Evidently having other plans, Galad broke away with a groan, and met Mat’s eyes, his pupils blown wide, mouth slick with their mingled saliva.  
  
“Forgive me, Matrim,” Light, Mat was never going to hear his proper name without blushing ever again. “But I am impatient, and have no wish to be discovered by any returning Warders.”  
  
Mat nearly had the word _‘what’_ formed on his lips when Galad slid smoothly to his knees and gripped Mat’s straining cock through his trousers, working at the ties. Mat nearly yelped, but managed instead to only wheeze a little at the delightful new pressure.  
  
“You did manage to get me on my knees, Matrim,” Galad drawled, palming Mat’s length, his other hand snaking around to grip Mat’s ass, giving it a firm, retributive squeeze. “I do so seldom find myself in the position.”  
  
“You seem quite—quite comfortable,” Mat quipped back, stuttering a little when Galad slid his hand down the back of Mat’s breeches to resume its attentions on his ass with skin on skin.  
  
“Well, it’s such a nice view, down here,” Galad said, and with both hands, pulled open Mat’s loosened breeches and let his hard cock spring free of his small clothes. “It would be a shame to let your excellent lessons in the staff go to waste.”  
  
Mat laughed aloud, the sound turning into a groan when Galad seemingly inhaled half the length of Mat’s cock into his mouth. Head thunking back briefly against the wood of the door—Light, were they really doing this in the _weapons room?_ —Mat quickly decided he was not going to let his own view go to waste.  
  
The sight of the beautiful, poised Galad Damodred on his knees sucking Mat’s cock like it was the best thing he’d tasted that week was... blood and _ashes_ , it was the sort of thing that could go to a man’s head.

As it was, Mat only felt a surge of lust, and let his hands curl under the sides of Galad’s head and jaw, thumbs brushing at his cheeks as he bobbed his head, the delicious suction and swirl of wet heat and tongue driving Mat quickly toward incoherence.  
  
Galad opened his eyes and looked up at Mat, boldly meeting Mat’s watchful gaze with his own. While Mat watched, Galad kept his eyes where they were, and pulled slowly off of Mat’s cock, stroking it with a firm grip and rubbing it ostentatiously against his lower lip.  
  
The sound Mat made could only have _charitably_ been called a groan.  
  
“Blood and ashes, but these people don’t know you at all,” Mat breathed, watching Galad unlace his own breeches with one hand, pull out his—Light help and preserve him— _gorgeous_ cock, and give it a few light tugs.  
  
“Oh, some of them do, though not quite this... _intimately_ ,” Galad said, almost musing as he dipped his head to lick at Mat’s cock. “I think I scare them, to be quite honest.”  
  
There wasn’t much time for Mat to even process what had been said before Galad returned to blowing his mind.  
  
With suction returning to his cock, Mat jerked his hips forward, but Galad was having none of it. With one arm he barred Mat’s hips against the door, his other hand moving smoothly over his own cock, just barely out of Mat’s sight.  
  
Blood and ashes, thought Mat, tilting his head to watch Galad pull himself off, but this might actually be worth the time spent trapped in the White Tower.  
  
Mat stroked Galad’s sweat damp hair out of his face, and Galad hummed in pleasure at the touch. Groaning himself, Mat felt close to the edge.  
  
Pulling off his cock, Galad let it bob free for a moment against his cheek, cutting short the budding orgasm as he mouthed along the length, eyes turning to look up at Mat.  
  
“You are an unreasonably alluring man,” Galad murmured against Mat’s flesh, voice hitching as his hand sped up along his flushed cock. Mat watched with unabashed hunger. Light, he’d like to get his mouth on that thing. Or ride it. Maybe against a wall.

_Or a door,_ Mat thought with distracted amusement.  
  
Something like a whine escaped him at the idea.  
  
“Unreasonable alluring my ass, Damodred,” Mat panted, slapping Galad’s cheek lightly with a finger. “I’m a half-starved country boy who’s got the most beautiful mouth in Tar Valon around my cock.” Mat raised his eyebrows. "Or at least I _did_."  
  
Galad’s hips stuttered as he pulled at his cock. “Just—catching up,” he gasped, and then closed his eyes and dove in on Mat’s cock with a will.  
  
Hard suction and generous wetness made Mat’s mind go a bit fuzzy, and his knees actually wobbled at the shock of pleasure.  
  
Mat gripped Galad’s head with one hand and braced the other high on the door, not needing to restrain his hips as Galad’s corded arm held him in place with ease. He watched and _felt_ it when Galad reached the edge, hand blurring over his cock.  
  
As he came, Galad groaned around Mat's length. Seed spilled over his tight fist, but Galad didn’t falter in his task of sucking Mat’s wits out through his cock for a moment. If anything, the orgasm spurred him on.  
  
The sight and sensation of Galad coming while sucking his cock was too much for Mat, he managed a polite warning that only got him a heated stare from the other man before he, too, was groaning in ecstasy.  
  
Galad sucked Mat through it, some of the mess escaping and leaking from the corners of his mouth, and by the time Galad pulled off of him, the arm across his hips was holding him _up_ more than back.  
  
With an ease of pressure, Galad let Mat slide down the door until his half bare ass hit the stone. Too dazed to be bothered by the cold rock, Mat just panted a little, blinking wide eyes at Galad.

The Prince had gathered his discarded shirt and was sitting back on his heels in the quiet after their activities, cleaning himself up with the soiled garment in measured movements.  
  
Watching him, Mat wasn’t even bothered to be sitting there, softening cock exposed to the air. After a raised eyebrow from Galad, though, he tucked himself in and did up the laces on his breeches.

Evidently considering himself clean enough, Galad maneuvered himself to sit next to Mat, their shoulders pressed together.  
  
“That was—poorly done, of me,” said Galad, after a minute.  
  
“I thought you did a pretty good job, myself,” replied Mat, head still a little muzzy.  
  
Galad leveled an unimpressed look at him, but there was contrition there, too. Mat felt an unexpected stab of hurt, that maybe the man regretted getting involved with Mat at all.  
  
“Matrim, I should have had more decorum than to have ravished you in the Warder’s weapon’s store," he said, voice serious as he reached for Mat's hand. "You deserved better.”  
  
Eyebrows climbing his forehead, Mat broke out into a grin, letting Galad twine their fingers together. “So, you’re _not_ guilty about seducing the poor country boy from the Two Rivers, but about not giving me candles and a soft bed?”

Mat nearly laughed in relief.  
  
Face still serious, Galad’s eyes moved over Mat’s face. “You deserve that.”  
  
For no reason Mat could conceive, the words both flustered and shamed him. He’d been just fine with barns and stables and—

Images and sounds battered at Mat’s mind.

_a room, a balcony, a narrow bed, a gasp of pleasure  
_  
—inns.  
  
No longer echoes, feelings of horror and shame crashed through Mat, a swift tide of sickness rising within him. Mat sucked in a sharp breath and doubled over, arms tight across his belly as he fought not to vomit. _Light_ , oh bloody _ashes_ , what—  
  
More sensations flashed across Mat’s mind.

_a face close to his own, wide eyes and parted lips, phantom weight on his lap, the ghost of a touch on his cheek_

It was so real that when Galad gripped his shoulder, Mat flinched so hard he nearly cried out.  
  
“Matrim, _Mat_ , are you well? Did I hurt you? Should I fetch a healer?” Galad asked, hand rubbing Mat's back briskly.  
  
“ _No,_ ” Mat gasped out, frustrated tears forming at the corners of his eyes. Both the vision and sickness faded from him only slightly less rapidly than they’d set in. “No, just—a cramp. I... I think maybe I should—”

Mat breathed in and out through his nose. Light. Bloody _fuck_. “Would you walk me to my room?” He asked, a little plaintively.  
  
“Of course,” said Galad, concern in his voice as he rose slowly to his feet. “By the Light, you’re pale as a corpse. You are still recovering. I should not have—”  
  
Mat waved him to silence, confused, frustrated, and nauseous. “Don’t you _dare_ bloody apologize for that. It was amazing and even if it did half kill me—which it _didn’t_ , I’m _fine_ —it would have been worth it. Just—help me up, you beautiful bastard.”   
  
So Galad did.

* * *

  
They headed toward Mat’s erstwhile residence in the White Tower. Mat had donned his shirt once more, but Galad had elected to deposit his own more soiled garment in the laundry near the training grounds and walk bare chested without shame through the halls of the Tower, leaving giggling novices in their wake.  
  
“I’m beginning to think you secretly _like_ the attention,” Mat muttered, half heartedly, not really needing Galad’s supporting arm in his own, but feeling a little proprietary about having it, nonetheless.  
  
Mat could be a petty man, especially with the way he was feeling, at the moment.  
  
“I truly do not,” Galad sighed, holding Mat close as they made their way up a flight of stairs. “Had there been any clean garments of my own to use, I would have.”

Though it had taken him a while to notice, Mat now noted that the attention Galad received kept it away from _Mat_ and how wrecked he was, and not just from Galad’s attentions.  
  
“Why not just take one of the others? There must have been a dozen shirts and tunics down there," asked Mat, distracted by the press of Galad's body against his.  
  
“Because they were not mine," Galad responded, sending Mat a nearly bemused look. "I would have needed to ask first, and you needed to go back to your room. Why would I delay simply for the sake of modesty?”  
  
Mat opened his mouth, and then shut it again. That—made a very Galad kind of sense. It tempted the blush Mat had escaped earlier with his strange episode, but Mat managed to force it down.  
  
Perhaps not entirely, if the amused tilt to Galad’s lips was any indication.  
  
After far too many stairs—to say nothing of the effects of a mind blowing orgasm and _bloody horrible thoughts_ —Mat actually was feeling exhausted, and hungry. He stumbled a little, and Galad caught him easily as they reached Mat’s door.  
  
“You, know,” Mat said as he opened it. “I think I will actually blame your co—”  
  
The ‘ _ck’_ lodged in Mat’s throat—and thank the _Light_ for that—at the sight of guests in his room. Three guests.

Elayne, Egwene… and Nynaeve.  
  
“Er,” Mat said, eyes wide and still clinging to Galad’s arm.  
  
His naked arm. Attached to his naked torso.  
  
Three sets of eyes slid from Mat to Galad.  
  
“Matrim _Cauthon_ ,” said Nynaeve, rising from her seat at a table laden with food, though he noticed her cheeks had darkened and that even _she_ was not immune to Galad’s—physique. “Where under the light have you been? We’ve been looking for you for hours!”  
  
A vision of Nynaeve walking in on Mat with his cock in Galad’s mouth flashed before his eyes, and he actually shuddered at the idea.  
  
Misinterpreting the shudder, Galad moved them both into the room, shutting the door behind them.  
  
 _Trapped,_ thought Mat, a little hysterically.  
  
“Nynaeve, Egwene,” Galad nodded at the two women, utterly unperturbed by his state of half-dress, thereby eliciting darker blushes. “Elayne,” he continued, with a deeper movement of his head. Elayne’s nose rose into the air, her mouth twisting, but she managed a stiff nod in return.  
  
“Galad,” she said, tone clipped. “What’s become of your shirt? It’s indecent to walk about the Tower in such a state. You should _know_ better!”  
  
Feeling Galad’s muscles tighten against him, Mat felt an answering surge of annoyance.  
  
There had been too many ups and downs for him, today. He was tired, he was hungry, he was worried about being trapped in the _bloody_ White Tower, confused by the awful feelings that kept blazing into his thoughts, and he was missing a whole lot of the memories that might explain how _all this fucking happened_.  
  
Frankly, Galad Damodred liked him, and Mat liked him back, and he seemed to be a decent man, and had treated Mat like he was someone worthy of respect and consideration.

Mat did not have any time for Elayne's sibling criticism, right now.  
  
“Ease off, Elayne,” he said, a bit waspishly as he pulled away from Galad and flopped into a chair closer to the door. “He was helping me after I tired myself too much with the Warders at training." Mat looked to Galad where he stood stiffly, by the door. "He wouldn’t take the time to borrow someone’s shirt before coming up here. It was _very kind_ of him,” Mat said, pointedly.  
  
Something like a huff escaped the Daughter Heir of Andor, but she said nothing. Mat very deliberately did not look in her direction.  
  
“Shall I leave you to your...” Galad did a slow once over of the women present, the disapproval in his gaze at their intrusion evident. “ _Guests?_ ”  
  
The word _‘uninvited’_ remained unsaid even as it hung in the air like an accusation. Egwene shifted in her seat, but neither Elayne nor Nynaeve made any show of contrition.  
  
For a moment, Mat thought of inviting Galad to stay, just to irritate the others. Nothing like putting someone off balance to bring down the cost of whatever they were here to demand. But Mat didn’t; he could handle these three by himself.  
  
Elayne looked about to open her mouth and take the decision out of his hands, so Mat stood once more and walked to the door, and Galad.  
  
“Thank you, but whatever business they have with me won’t take too long, I’m sure,” Mat said, and placed a hand on Galad’s back that could have been interpreted as companionable, if it were maybe a finger's width higher than it was.  
  
Elayne made a noise behind them, and Mat bit his cheek to keep from grinning.  
  
Invisible to the women, turned as he was toward the door, Galad cocked an eyebrow at Mat and gave him a warm smile that had just a _little_ too much heat in it.  
  
“Do get some rest, Matrim,” Galad said, clearly audible. “You’ve clearly exhausted yourself with today’s activities.”  
  
The bastard licked his lips. _Blood and bloody ashes._  
  
Mat opened the door and all but shoved Galad out of it, sticking his head out after. “You’re a tease and a half, Damodred,” he hissed, then blurted: “Join me later for supper?”  
  
“I’ll call on you after the fifth bell. If you’re awake, I could—eat,” Galad said, voice smooth and even.  
  
Mat was about to respond, but the man struck like a snake, planted a kiss on his lips, turned around, and began that arrogant slink down the corridor to the stairs, _still_ without a shirt.  
  
Watching Galad until he disappeared from view, Mat wondered if Warders appreciated how good Cat Crosses the Courtyard made their asses look. _Mat_ certainly did.  
  
Leaning back inside, Mat blinked at the open door a moment before shutting it and turning back to face his uninvited guests, jaw set.  
  
Elayne and Nynaeve had identical looks of near shocked outrage on their faces, but Egwene had a hand over her mouth that was clearly trying to hide a delighted grin.  
  
“Now, what was it you wanted?” Mat asked, going for brusque to cover the slight heat in his cheeks.  
  
“You—and _him_ —what under the _Light,_ ” sputtered Elayne, her own cheeks going red.  
  
“What?” Mat asked, a practiced expression of pure innocence firmly in place. “I’ve just been showing him a thing or two about handling a staff. He’s getting quite good at it.”  
  
If her mouth weren’t hanging half open in appalled, sisterly shock, she might have sputtered more.  
  
Nynaeve clearly looked like she wanted to begin a nice long lecture, but Egwene touched her arm and, biting her lip, shook her head at the other woman.  
  
“We came here for a reason, Nynaeve,” Egwene murmured, audibly. “And it wasn’t to pry into Mat’s business. Especially if we’re going to ask for his _help,_ ” she went on, emphasizing the last bit.  
  
Oh, blood and ashes. Here it came.  
  
Mat made his way over to a chair at the table, where a platter with bread, fish, and other sundry fare was laid out. He grabbed a few pieces and began munching as he turned back to the others.  
  
“Well?” He asked, mouth slightly full, noting how Elayne was giving him a suspicious look. “What can I do for you ladies?”

Though the subject of Galad still hung in the room, it quickly cleared out once they told him.

* * *

Once the business had been resolved and Mat had his ticket out of Tar Valon, Nynaeve exploded like an Illuminator’s firework.  
  
So much for them leaving Mat's personal business with Galad out of things.  
  
“ _Matrim Cauthon_ , tell me that you have not been making—” Nynaeve paused, her anger making her near incoherent. “— _unwanted advances_ on that young man!”  
  
 _Young man_. Mat nearly scoffed. Galad was Nynaeve's elder by four years.  
  
Both Mat and Egwene looked at Nynaeve with surprise, but Mat had plenty of room left over for some hurt and indignation.  
  
“Excuse me?” Mat said, just as Egwene burst out a disapproving “Ny _naeve!_ ”  
  
“You know Mat better than that,” Egwene continued, folding her arms sternly. “He’d never.”  
  
“Oh, I know him _quite_ well enough, and he’s scoundrel enough for two men,” Nynaeve went on, unperturbed by Egwene’s chastisement, and fixing Mat with a glare that held heat Mat didn't understand. “Did you see him, after Galad had been kind enough to escort him here? He was all but _pawing_ at the man!”  
  
Thinking about how _Galad_ had been pawing at _him_ not an hour ago, Mat felt some anger of his own, stir.  
  
“Now hold on a moment there,” he said, sitting up straighter. “I’ve never given you a second’s reason to think I’d ever pursue someone that didn’t want it. Light, Nynaeve!” he seethed. “I don’t see what business it is of yours, at all! _We_ are not in the Two Rivers and _you_ are no longer the Wisdom, not that you’ve ever shown any faith in me at all, but this kills the goat.” Mat stood, abruptly. Thin as he was, he held himself proudly and with defiance. “You’ve given me a way to get out of this city, and I am grateful, but if you think me so low as that, maybe you should take it back and I’ll find my own way,” he said, pulling the letter out of his pocket and holding it out.  
  
Eyes wide, Nynaeve stared at him in shock. Something like confusion flashed across her face, and then fury blossomed in her eyes. She, too, made to stand up, but Egwene caught her by the elbow and pulled her sharply back down.  
  
The way both Elayne and Egwene were looking at her made Mat sure that she’d been about to do something with the One Power, and as much as that made him want to take a step or three away—bloody _One Power_ —he stood his ground and stared at her, fear coiling in his belly.  
  
“That’s quite enough, Nynaeve,” hissed Egwene. “I’m sure if there were anything _going on,_ ” Egwene flicked her eyes to Mat, “between them, Galad is quite capable of defending his own honor and virtue.”  
  
“Virtue,” Elayne snorted, folding her arms and giving Mat a look that clearly said she thought his taste in partner abominable. Mat turned his glare on her as he tucked the Amyrlin’s letter back in his pocket and, though she raised her chin, she looked away.  
  
Though Nynaeve appeared like she very much wanted to say more, she made only a growling sound and gripped her braid in a fist.  
  
“Well, that’s settled,” Egwene said, and both she and Elayne relaxed a little. “Elayne, Nynaeve, I’ll meet you in the novices’ quarters. I need a moment with Mat before I go.”  
  
Chin still raised in a haughty display, Elayne swept out of the room like she was already a bloody queen, and Nynaeve followed her, giving Mat a dark look.

Mat didn’t bother with goodbyes for either of them.  
  
The Light burn him, what had Mat done to get _Nynaeve_ so mad at him?  
  
When the door was closed, Mat sagged a little from his rigid posture and went to go sit down on the edge of his bed, feeling drained to his marrow.  
  
“Blood and ashes,” he murmured. “You’d think she was Aes Sedai already.”  
  
“Hush, you,” said Egwene, and rose to follow Mat and sit down on the bed next to him. “You look a lot better than when we brought you here.” She turned a little and touched his cheek. “Not so thin, or pale.”  
  
“Can’t seem to stop eating, and I’ve had a lot of time in the sun, last days or so,” Mat shrugged.  
  
“With Galad?” Egwene drawled, looking at him sidelong.  
  
Mat couldn’t help but flash a quick grin. Light, he _had_ missed Egwene, too.  
  
“Now, now, Egwene, I couldn’t possibly tell you even if I were,” he said, mock chidingly.  
  
She smacked him in the arm.  
  
“Don’t you dare! Have you seen the man? He’s—Light, I prefer Gawyn, but he’s _beautiful!_ ” She sighed. “You can’t sit there and not tell me anything,” Egwene said. “That’s just rude.”  
  
Mat waved a hand, shaking his head. “I’ve been called worse, and in the last ten bloody minutes, to boot.”  
  
“Be that way,” Egwene huffed, and leaned against him for a moment. “I thought—well.” She sucked in a breath. “You and Rand...”  
  
Something vague and horrible stirred in Mat’s mind, like the shuddering edges of a chasm, and he stiffened.  
  
“What about it?” He asked, a little sharply.  
  
Egwene gave him another look as she turned more fully to face the side of his head. “Don’t take that tone with me, Mat Cauthon. I’ve got eyes in my head that work just as well as yours. You’ve carried a torch for Rand for years, the big oaf. I've always known he was never for me, not really.” Egwene looked away. “After all that time you spent on the road, and in Caemlyn, I thought, maybe...”  
  
Mat looked away. “I don’t remember any of it,” he said in a small voice, and it wasn’t _quite_ a lie.

He didn’t have much. Not _real_ memories, only flashes of sound, still images, and those _bloody_ horrible feelings cropping up at odd moments, usually when he thought of Rand.  
  
“The dagger,” Egwene sighed. “I thought as much, but—I don’t know. Rand seemed very... sad, I suppose, after we showed up with Moiraine and she healed you. I think that's why Nynaeve is cross with you. She thinks you've done something, and I can't convince her otherwise.”  
  
“Suppose with the channeling and all, Rand has got plenty to be sad about,” Mat hunched his shoulders. “He never said anything to me, about the whole thing. Barely talked to me at all, really. If something had happened, wouldn't he have told me?" Mat asked, thn shook his head. "Then with how he was going on in Fal Dara and on the hunt for Fain, I—no, Egwene.” Mat sighed and rubbed a hand across his face, feeling very tired. “There’s nothing for me and Rand. Not anymore.”  
  
Egwene sighed as she sat next to him, leaned into his flank and put her arm around his shoulders, evidently hearing much of what he hadn’t said.  
  
“It’ll be alright, Mat,” she said. “All of us will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What, you didn't think Mat got to just have nice things, did you?


	4. chapter four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mat makes the most of his last evening in the White Tower, and the streets of Tar Valon prove more of a challenge than he thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter, folks. Thanks for sailing this ship with me. It's been fun.
> 
> I'm not saying that half of this chapter is smut, but I'm not _not_ saying that, either.

In the hours between his meeting with the women and his _appointment_ with Galad, Mat did his best to prepare to leave the city. Really, there wasn’t much to pack, but he prepared what he did have.

After the ten minutes it took to do that, Mat availed himself of the large wash basin in the corner of the room. The water was cold, but it was plentiful, so he was able to scrub away the sweat and grime of the day’s earlier activities, and generally freshen himself, including a shave. Light, but he had developed some scruff.

Then he took a nap. Burn him, but he was not used to being this _tired_ all the time.

Sleeping though, lead to dreams, and Mat’s had been troubled long before he came to the White Tower.

Vague images of fire, of mist, and whispers in the dark assaulted him as he slept. More than that, he _felt_ things. Something like panic, or fear, clawed at the edges of his mind, and below it swirled a nauseating lust. Words tried to bubble through the twisted morass of sound and sensation that was his dreaming mind, but only half formed noises reached him. A laugh, a cut off shout, a groan, a _whimper_ —

Finally clawing himself free of the suffocating dream, Mat inhaled sharply upon waking, the warm light of a fading afternoon still coming through the window.

“Are you well?” Asked a quiet voice from beside him, and Mat half sat up, turning his head to see Galad perched on the edge of the bed, his hand poised as if ready to reach out and touch Mat.

Scrubbing a hand down his face, Mat blinked to clear the sleep from his eyes.

“I—yes,” he answered, muzzily. “Sorry, just... bad dream, I guess.”

Eyebrows drawn in concern, Galad made good on his reach and touched his hand to Mat’s head, gently smoothing his hair back from his face. Mat closed his eyes at the touch, feeling unfairly comforted when his dream hadn’t _really_ been that bad.

“I am sorry your sleep troubles you. Are you still tired? I could go,” he offered, continuing to stroke Mat’s hair.

“Hmm,” Mat hummed in pleasure. “No. Not really. Not more than I always seem to be, anyway. Stay,” he said, reaching up and grabbing Galad’s wrist, bringing the hand around to plant a kiss on the palm.

Smiling warmly, Galad maneuvered himself onto the bed and scooted his body close to Mat’s. He situated himself up against the pillows and wall behind them, then wrapped his arm around Mat’s shoulders. Still mostly laying down, Mat allowed his head to fall against Galad’s chest, and rested his hand on the man’s stomach, feeling the softness of flesh, as well as the hard muscle beneath.

It was not quite what Mat had had in mind, but he found he didn’t mind whiling away a few minutes just resting there, Galad a warm, firm presence next to him and around him. Though he had no true recent memories to draw from, Mat’s body let him know that it remembered being held like this, and that he should have been doing it more.

“I’m leaving Tar Valon tonight,” he said, eventually.

“Oh?” Asked Galad, neither sounding shocked with the news nor unconcerned. “Are you not still recovering from your illness?”

Mat shrugged one shoulder. “I feel well enough. It’s—to be honest, I do not think I’m safe here. There are… some things that I can’t talk about. But I need to leave.”

“Has someone threatened you?” Galad asked, his hand stilling on Mat’s arm where he had been stroking the skin. “One of the Aes Sedai?”

“Not in so many words,” Mat sighed. “But I had a— _visitor_. A strange one, and she said some things that checked out when I asked The Amyrlin about them. Galad, my father came looking for me, here, and they sent him away. The Amyrlin,” Mat paused, pursing his lips as he thought about what to say, and what he needed to keep to himself. “It’s enough to say that her interest in me doesn’t have anything to do with _me_ , at least not in a good way. I need to leave.”

Galad was silent for a minute, evidently thinking on Mat’s words.

“You probably should,” he murmured, then sighed with disappointment. “You may not know as much about the White Tower and Aes Sedai as I do, but your instincts are sharp. It is rarely good for one’s health to have them as interested in you as you say they are.”

Sighing, Mat pressed his cheek more firmly into Galad’s chest. “I also have a letter to deliver, in Caemlyn.”

“Caemlyn?” Galad asked, and Mat looked up at him to see the man looking down in surprise.

“Yes,” Mat responded, turning onto his back and shifting so his head rested just below Galad’s ribs. “I’ve apparently been there before, but my— _illness_ —poked some holes in my memory. A lot of holes, actually. I can barely remember what it looks like.”

Studying the man from below, Mat caught Galad looking toward the window at the waning light. “It is a beautiful city. Much like Tar Valon, but... more _alive_ ,” he emphasized, sighing. “Though perhaps I have just been among Warders and Aes Sedai too much, of late.” Looking down at Mat, he grinned. “You have been a welcome reminder of humanity.”

Mat snorted, and before he could reply, Galad bent forward and kissed him. Even with the awkward angle, Galad’s mouth nearly upside down on his, it was a delightful kiss. Soft, and filled with an earnest desire of which Mat felt somehow privileged to be the subject.

Letting up, Galad stroked a hand down Mat’s chest, firm pressure that rubbed his shirt against his skin.

“Shall we make the most of your remaining time here, Matrim?” Galad asked. “Or are you hungry?”

Mat _was_ hungry. But he wasn’t about to let that stop him.

Hooking a hand around the back of his neck, Mat pulled Galad back down into another kiss, arching up into the contact as Galad’s hand slid down his belly and pulled up his shirt, boldly stroking the breadth of his hand across Mat’s stomach and up his chest.

Using Galad as a lever, Mat pulled himself upright and straddled him, letting the man lift his shirt up and over his head, baring his still thin body to the reddish light of sunset. Evidently, Galad had had his fill of looking during their earlier encounter, because he dove directly in to kiss at Mat’s neck. His hands fell to rest on Mat’s hips and encourage a firm grind between them, pressing their bodies together.

Light, Mat could _feel_ it as Galad’s cock grew hard beneath him, gasping when the man nipped at the flesh of his collar bone.

“What do you want?” Asked Galad, pulling away and letting his head fall back as he thrust his hips up and against Mat’s ass, bringing a hand forward to cup the bulge of Mat’s cock through his trousers.

“Fuck,” Mat swore. “ _Light_ , I want you to fuck me against the wall,” he breathed, his mind conjuring an image of them both sweating and worked up from a practice match, Aes Sedai and Warders only a few turns away from seeing Mat with his hands braced against a wall and Galad’s cock buried inside of him.

“Would you object,” Galad started, surging forward and crushing their cocks together as he half lifted Mat against him. “If I had my mouth on you for a bit longer, first?” He asked.

“ _Light_ no,” Mat choked out. “Off, _off_ ,” he said, pawing at the hem of Galad’s shirt.

Disengaging, they both had their trousers off and Galad his shirt, and they lay tangled on the bed, skin to skin and losing themselves in one another.

Blood and ashes, but Galad was so _focused_ , and intense. It wasn’t like fucking a stable boy at an inn, or a fling with a soldier in Shienar. Something about Galad had him intent on Mat like they had been lovers for years, just reunited after a long absence.

The way he clutched Mat, caressed his face for a gentle moment when they kissed, his evident pleasure in how Mat touched him, made Mat feel treasured and wanted in a way that he didn’t know if he ever had been.

“On your knees, if you wouldn’t mind,” Galad murmured into his stomach, rubbing his smooth cheek against the downy hair that grew below his navel.

Cock jumping, Mat almost whined in anticipation as he rolled over, rested himself on his elbows and turned his head to look back at Galad. Even for Mat, exposing himself like this, his cock hanging heavy between his legs and his hole presented, every inch of him throbbing in anticipation, felt like something significant.

“You washed,” murmured Galad, as he drew a calloused hadn’t down Mat’s back, only just dampening with sweat. “Did you anticipate me, Matrim?”

“Well,” gasped Mat, grunting in pleasure when Galad slowly dragged his slick fingers through his cleft and across his hole, fingertips catching at the rim. “You did seem to have a fondness for using your mouth earlier.” Mat’s breath hitched as Galad rubbed his fingers over his entrance, probing gently. “Wanted to be ready.”

The sensation of Galad’s lips, and then teeth, on the swell of his buttocks had Mat arching wantonly. “And are you?” He asked, thumb rubbing and pressing against Mat’s hole, kissing the base of his spine with tenderness even as his other hand wrapped around Mat’s cock and gave it a hard tug.

“Fuck, _yes_ ,” he answered. “Not my first time, I can—”

Between one word and the next, Galad had grasped Mat’s cheeks, spread him wide, and pressed the flat of his tongue onto his hole.

Mat _yelled_ ; he couldn’t help it. Relentlessly, Galad tongued at him, licking in broad stripes and sucking light kisses when he stopped to breathe. When he speared his tongue, diving inside of him, Mat keened. Before he could take a second breath to swear, Galad had let go of his ass to slip a finger in alongside, pulling his hole wider to let him work his tongue in even deeper.

“Light, oh fuck, Blood and _ashes_ ,” he swore, pressing his forehead into the bed.

Galad moaned in appreciation, the vibration sending a tingle up Mat’s spine that had fluid dripping from his neglected cock, and he groaned in answer. Galad pressed forward, like he couldn’t get enough of Mat, and released his remaining hold on Mat’s ass to tug at his hanging cock.

Pressing back into the slick, stabbing heat of Galad’s tongue and fingers, Mat lost himself in the delightful sensations coursing through him. So much of what he could remember of the last months was pain and deprivation, worry, _loneliness_ , but this—bloody ashes, it was _sublime_.

“Light,” Galad gasped, pulling back and dragging his teeth along Mat’s spine, leaning over his back and letting his cock drag between Mat’s slick cheeks. “I could devour you until you made a mess of these sheets,” he said, forehead pressed to the back of Mat’s neck as he thrust his hard cock against him.

“I’m not stopping you,” Mat managed to grit out, feeling Galad thrust again, his cock dragging deliciously against his sensitive hole.

“I _want_ ,” Galad said, running his hands from Mat’s shoulders down to his wrists where they were planted next to his head. “To fuck you against the wall, Matrim. I want you to come all over the bricks of the White Tower with my cock inside of you,” he said, smooth voice dripping filth directly into Mat’s ear. He shivered at the sensation, even as the heat of Galad’s muscled body covered him.

Blood and _bloody_ ashes.

“Please,” Mat gasped, letting his body collapse forward onto his elbows. “Fuck, _please_.”

Groaning, Galad rutted against Mat a few more times before pulling away.

“Not yet,” he said, and Mat glared over his shoulder to see Galad sitting back on the bed, his cock hard and exposed against his belly. “I recall boasts about how skilled a rider you are,” he said, quirking an eyebrow in challenge. “Were they only boasts?”

Oh, that _bastard_.

When Mat turned himself around and crawled into Galad’s lap, he knew he must be a little wild eyed. Well, it was the man’s own bloody fault for winding Mat up like that.

Galad sat up to meet him while Mat got his knees on either side of the man’s hips. Mat gripped Galad’s head, threading fingers into his long black hair and kissing him with all the frustration and lust he was feeling. Galad returned the kiss in kind, both hands gripping Mat’s hips and using the leverage to thrust himself up between the globes of Mat’s ass.

Moaning into the kiss, Mat sat back, rocking his hips a few times, feeling the slide of Galad’s cock against his hole. Without ceremony, he reached for the olive oil he’d squirreled away from his breakfast, coating his fingers with the slick. Galad watched him with that same focused intensity, his hands sweeping up Mat’s flanks and back down to caress his hips.

Satisfied, Mat reached back and gripped the shaft—not too thick, but long—and pumped it, coating the length with oil and unceremoniously swiping some along his already slick cleft.

After a couple false starts—Galad was _squirming_ , the bastard—Mat glared at him.

“For fuck’s sake, Damodred. Do you need a bridle?” Mat asked, and Galad huffed a laugh.

“My apologies,” Galad’s eyes danced—he was _not_ sorry—and he leaned up to kiss Mat. Accepting the attention, if a little petulantly, Mat reached behind himself and held Galad’s cock, squeezing harder than strictly necessary, as they kissed. Galad made a small noise of surprise into Mat’s mouth, and Mat felt pleased with his petty vengeance.

“Now don’t,” Mat said, breaking the kiss. “ _Move_.”

Bearing down, Mat held Galad’s dark eyes as he finally got the head of the man’s cock inside of him.

Eyes closing, Galad opened his mouth, swollen lips parting as he gasped. Mat slowly settled himself down with a satisfied sigh, feeling every inch of Galad slide into him, reveling in the easy stretch.

For a few moments, they stayed like that, Mat rocking just a little to feel the shape and throb of Galad inside of him, the other man gripping his hips almost gently.

Easing forward, they both groaned as Galad’s cock shifted, sliding out, before Mat sat back again. Repeating the motion, Mat set an easy, rolling rhythm, his own cock hard and leaking as it stood pressed between them, sliding from Galad’s belly nearly to his chest.

With an unexpected swiftness, Galad reached up and caught the back of Mat’s neck with one hand, pulling him forward into a tender, passionate kiss. Even like this, Galad’s kiss was deliberate, nothing open mouthed or sloppy about it. Pressing their bodies together, Galad shifted beneath him, and Mat almost yelped into the man’s mouth when he snapped his hips upward off the bed, driving his cock deeper.

Breaking the kiss, Mat eyed him, Galad looking back with unabashed want, and _challenge_.

Well, then.

Gripping the frame of the bed to either side of Galad where he sat, Mat lifted himself up on his knees and drove down, nearly making himself see stars with the pleasure that ripple up his spine as it caught that spot inside of him.

Feeling sweat bead on his skin, Mat went to it with a will, rocking up and back down, riding Galad’s cock _almost_ like he sat a horse.

The sound of their bodies meeting and their quiet groans and exhalations filled the room. Galad’s callused hands mapped deliberate paths over Mat’s chest and down the twitching muscles of his belly, avoiding his cock, letting it continue to bob and slide between their bodies. Galad mouthed at Mat’s neck and chest as much as could with Mat moving, his breaths coming faster, making Mat’s nipples hard with each warm huff of air.

Light, it was _so good_. But he was also doing all the work, and was about ready to let Galad pick up the slack.

Finally, Mat leaned back, bracing his hands to either side of Galad’s legs where they stretched out behind him, and rolled his hips and belly in a deliberate show, resisting the urge to grab his own cock and get the friction he had been missing.

The slide and impact of Galad’s cock moving in and out of him was itself delightful, though; Light, but it had been so _long_ since he’d been fucked, like this. Or fucked _himself_ like this, he should say.

Whatever the sight of him did to Galad, Mat counted it worth the effort when the man surged forward, gripped Mat tightly around his back and beneath his ass, and turned, lifting them both off the bed.

In a casual display of strength—Mat was nearly six feet of muscle and bone, even if he didn’t have much extra padding on him at the moment—Galad lifted him up, his cock still inside Mat, and walked them toward the wall by the window. For a second, Mat thought Galad meant to hold him up against the stone, and though the idea might have seemed appealing, in practice he knew the rough stone wouldn’t do his naked back any favors.

Thankfully, he needn’t have worried.

“Down,” Galad murmured, allowing Mat to unhook his knees from around Galad’s waist, the man’s cock slipping free with a wet noise that sounded obscene in the quiet of the room.

Mat grunted at the loss, feeling his hole flutter and clench around nothing, aching to be filled, again. “Face the wall,” said Galad, calm and firm.

“Bossy,” Mat said, giving him a look, but couldn’t deny that the quirk of Galad’s lips and the way his eyes crinkled in amusement _did_ things to him.

So Mat did. Stepping flush to Mat’s back, Galad stroked his hands down Mat’s arms all the way to his wrists, guiding them up and forward. Remembering with a shiver what Galad had said earlier, Mat braced his hands against the stone of the White Tower.

“Perfect,” Galad said, and kissed Mat’s cheek as he stepped back. Tossing an playful look over his shoulder at Galad, Mat arched his back, presenting himself to the Prince, open and expectant.

Galad stroked down Mat’s sweat slick back with one broad hand, reaching down to probe at Mat’s hole with his fingers, and Mat hissed in pleasure, turning his head back to wall and letting it thud against the stone.

“Are you well?” Galad asked, his voice sincere, even as he eased two fingers inside of Mat, deftly stroking his inner walls.

“Fantastic,” Mat gasped, arching back when Galad curled his fingers and pressed deliberately against that knot inside him. “Are you?”

“Enjoying myself immensely,” said Galad, and Mat turned to see him smiling warmly, almost boyishly. “Would you like me to fuck you hard, Matrim? I do not wish to hurt you.”

The utter brazen sincerity of the question made Mat burst into giggles, unintentionally clenching around Galad’s fingers. Despite the laugh it generated, the words went straight to the warm, fluttery feeling in Mat’s stomach. Mat thought he might actually be blushing.

Light, but Galad was serious, even when he sounded absurd.

“Yes,” Mat managed to get out. “Yes, you ridiculous man, I can take it if you fuck me hard.” Mat cleared his throat, relaxing around Galad’s fingers. He looked back at Galad to see him grinning, and Mat’s eyes trailed down to where he pulled languidly on his own cock, waiting for him.

“It’s okay if you, uh, pull my hair a little, too,” Mat added, mouth gone slightly dry. “Just don’t choke me.”

“Of course,” Galad said, withdrawing his fingers, making Mat breathless with anticipation as he turned back to the wall.

With only the movement of his body as warning, Galad positioned his cock against Mat’s hole and pushed inside him with one long, unrelenting thrust. Mat cried out, but had only enough time to gasp in a breath before Galad did it again, harder, pressing him forward with every movement of his hips.

Blood and ashes, but Galad _did_ fuck him hard. 

Before long, Mat was crowded up against the wall, Galad’s arms braced to either side of his own. The slightly taller man’s lips and teeth explored Mat’s neck as he drove his cock in and out with hard, controlled thrusts.

Small yelps and grunts of pleasure forced themselves out of Mat’s throat every time Galad’s cock slid into him, the heavy weight of Galad’s sac slapping against his ass. Strong hands held his hips, keeping Mat in his position almost flush to the wall, and Mat wished he could dig his fingers into the stone like claws.

It should have felt obscene, doing this with a Prince of Andor in the White Tower, the open window maybe carrying each sound they made to listening ears, far below, but Galad was shameless in his enjoyment of Mat’s body.

“You are beautiful,” Galad panted into Mat’s neck where he rested his forehead, his voice gravely with lust and exertion, breath hot against Mat’s slick flesh.

Mat couldn’t help but huff a laugh, at that, and he felt Galad grin against his cheek before Mat turned to catch his mouth in a kiss. Mat didn’t let Galad keep it controlled and decent, this time, thrusting his tongue into Galad’s mouth and capturing the taste of him, letting the man feel each noise he made every time Galad drove into him.

One of Galad’s hands threaded through Mat’s hair, deepening the kiss. With slow pressure, Galad tightened his grip and pulled, the sting sending tiny shocks of pain and pleasure down his spine. Galad wormed his other hand in between Mat and the wall, pressing Mat’s cock down nearly between his legs, using his wrist and palm to shield it from the rough stone.

Fuck, the pressure alone was wonderful. Galad cupped the head of his cock, caressing it with his fingers, a gentle counterpoint to the hard thrusts that had Mat nearly sobbing into Galad’s mouth with pleasure.

“You feel,” Galad panted, breaking the kiss. “Marvelous. Light, you are _perfect_.”

Moaning, Mat let his head fall back against Galad’s shoulder, the grip of the man’s hand in his hair still a firm pressure, sending his mind drifting on the tide of pleasure and sensation.

“Here,” Galad said, and pressed Mat’s cock and his hips backward, encouraging him to shuffle his feet back away from the wall. “Wider,” he said, and through the haze of lust in his mind, Mat complied, shifting his stance, too dazed to feel anything but grateful that Galad was in control. _Mat_ certainly wasn’t.

With the space opened between himself and the wall, Galad had unfettered access to Mat’s cock. Almost immediately, Galad’s thrust went deeper, and a long, guttural noise crawled up from the depths of Mat’s soul as the man pulled at his cock. It made Mat feel like Galad’s cock might burst through the front of him, so deeply was the man fucking him, now.

With his forearms and elbows propping him up against the wall, Galad was able to keep hold of Mat’s hair, not always pulling, but maintaining a grip and constant pressure. The angle must have been awkward, stroking Mat’s cock while keeping a hand in his hair, but Galad showed no sign of strain as he hammered his cock into Mat again and again.

Honestly, Mat had felt on the verge of coming since Galad’s _tongue_ had been inside of him, but now— _now_ he was close, and burn him, but Mat wanted Galad to fuck him through it.

“Galad,” he slurred, losing his breath for a moment when Galad shifted his body, angling his hips to drive into him from below, stroking across that sweet spot of nerves inside of Mat with every thrust. “Oh, _oh_ , fuck, right there, don’t stop.”

Releasing Mat’s hair, Galad gripped the back of Mat’s neck and gently pressed it down until he was looking at his own cock, fucking in and out of Galad’s curled fist.

“On the bricks of the White Tower,” Galad said, his voice breathless. “With me inside of you.”

Mat couldn’t be sure if it was a few seconds or a lifetime that passed. All he knew was that Galad squeezed the back of his neck, _hard_ , and with a deep thrust that had him seeing colored lights, Mat was helpless to do anything but sob in relief as he came, and _came_. He watched Galad through a blur of tears as the man stroked him through the orgasm, some of his seed spurting onto the bricks, dripping down the white stone.

All the while, just as Mat had asked, Galad did _not stop fucking him_. When Galad had wrung the last drop out of him, he released Mat’s cock, buried himself to the hilt, and stayed there, breathing hard into the back of Mat’s neck.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, kissing his back, and Mat spasmed with aftershocks around Galad’s length, feeling it deep inside of him, his body boneless and half collapsed against the wall. “By the Light, but you look gorgeous.”

“ _Guh_ ,” Mat managed, bringing up a hand to sloppily caress Galad’s cheek.

“Do you mind if we finish on the bed?” He asked, his arms coming around Mat in an embrace, nuzzling into the back of his neck.

“Yeah, sure,” Mat agreed, wondering if Galad might carry him there.

Gently, Galad eased out of Mat, pulling a soft groan from him. In a few motions, Galad had laid Mat out on his back, his lower half off the bed, feet just reaching the floor and his ass right at the edge of the mattress.

Like the first time Mat had seen him, Galad’s body glistened with sweat in the fading light of the early evening—though this time Galad’s hard cock, flushed a deep red at the tip, stood proudly at the apex of his thighs.

Almost reverently, Galad knelt down between Mat’s legs, kissing up his thighs, licking at the streaks of come that had fallen on his own legs and _not_ the stone of the White Tower.

Light, if Mat could have gotten hard again, the sight of Galad on his knees and licking come off of him would have done it.

Patiently, Galad bathed Mat’s body with his tongue like a particularly solicitous cat, stroking his hands down the underside of Mat’s thighs and gripping him beneath his knees, spreading him wider.

Blood and ashes, but Mat felt like he was floating, his ears full of his own panting breaths and a sound like bees.

Licking a stripe up the underside of Mat’s now flaccid cock, Galad took the sensitive head into his mouth, tenderly sucking it clean. Mat let out a hiss at the sensation, hips twitching.

“Slowly, this time, I think,” Galad murmured, letting Mat’s cock fall from his mouth.

Rising to his feet, Galad paced around the bed to retrieve the small phial of oil that Mat had used earlier, coming back to where Mat lay, debauched and spread wide on the edge of the bed, boneless and at peace with the world.

With slick fingers, Galad probed once more at Mat’s hole, which felt sensitive and puffy with use. Mat hissed lightly, and Galad paused. “Did I hurt you?” He asked, sounding concerned.

Opening his eyes—when had he closed them, again?—Mat looked up at Galad, and fuck, he was so _pretty_. How did someone even look that bloody gorgeous? Fucking ashes, the poor pretty man looked anxious, so Mat reached down to where Galad’s fingers disappeared inside of him, and urged him deeper.

“Just—sensitive,” Mat gasped, valiantly rocking his hips. “Come on, I want your pretty cock back inside me.”

Snorting at Mat’s choice of words, Galad withdrew his fingers, and coated his cock once more. Galad hitched Mat’s knee up with one big hand, slender fingers curling around it.

Slowly, like he’d promised, Galad pushed into him without resistance, and Mat let his head fall back, a quiet groan rumbling in his chest.

For a few minutes, Galad fucked him like that; slow and deep— _sweetly_. With the hand not holding his leg, Galad caressed Mat’s belly, pressing down as if trying to feel his cock from the outside. Mat couldn’t do more than lay there and revel in the sensations, in the way Galad was quiet, and tender.

The Light have mercy, Mat thought he might _cry_.

Galad’s breath hitched, and Mat opened his eyes, looking at the man and wondering how under the Light he had ended up here. Sweat beaded and dripped down Galad’s body in runnels as he fucked Mat with restrained passion. Light, but he was so _beautiful_.

Galad swept his long hair back and away from his face, closing his eyes. The Prince’s mouth fell open and he looked like he was as gone as Mat, and _burning bloody fuck but Mat was doing that do him_.

Strands of black hair hung down into Galad’s face, clinging to his skin, and Mat watched his face, transfixed.

Mat wanted to sit up and lick the sweat that glistened at the hollow of his throat, and _would_ have if his bones hadn’t turned to jelly.

“Matrim,” Galad gasped out, his hand tightening on Mat’s knee. “I’m close.”

Mat’s spent cock gave a valiant twitch, and he fisted his hands in the sheets. Galad’s eyes locked on Mat’s, and in the last light of sunset they were as black as his hair, pupils blown wide.

“Come inside me,” Mat gasped out, his heart beating in every inch of his body. “Make me feel it.”

To Mat’s delight, Galad _swore_. Mat actually laughed out loud, catching the grin on Galad’s face as he gripped Mat’s other knee, pushing his legs up and spreading them wide. He surged forward, burying his cock inside Mat to the hilt, and caught his mouth in a deep, sensual kiss.

Mat twined his arms around Galad’s neck and wrapped his legs tight around the man’s waist, urging him even deeper. Galad pushed Mat further up, joining him on the bed.

For a moment, they lay there like that, breathing each other’s air. Galad’s pressed his forehead to Mat’s own, and Mat felt the solid weight of him, the ridges of small scars on his shoulders and back, the stretch and fullness of Galad inside of him.

Then Galad fucked him so hard that Mat thought he saw the Age Lace itself.

Holding on, Mat almost sobbed, and he thought that Galad may have forced a last dribble of come out of his soft cock. Light, he’d told Galad that he wanted to feel it, and he thought he might feel it in his _throat_.

With a final pair of powerful thrusts, Galad buried himself deep inside Mat and came, groaning and dropping his forehead to Mat’s shoulder.

Even post orgasm, Galad was a fucking _gentleman_ , and turned them over so that he rested on his side, facing Mat rather than crushing him into the mattress.Not that Mat would have minded, he thought dazedly. The man made a nice blanket.

Galad held Mat close, and Mat let himself just— _live_ in that moment, feeling safe, and _wanted_ , and like he could relax and be unafraid after so much time spent running.

Minutes passed, and reality began to intrude on Mat’s afterglow.

Blood and ashes, he had to run _again_. After _this_. Mat might cry, after all.

“You are thinking too much,” Galad murmured.

“Can’t help it,” Mat sighed, beginning to extract himself from Galad’s embrace.

For a couple minutes, they went through the motions of cleaning up, and existed in mutual space, a delightful lack of awkwardness. Standing by the wash basin, Mat heard Galad approach him from behind, and closed his eyes as the man wrapped his arms around him.

“You are set on leaving the Tower?” Asked Galad, pressing a soft kiss to the side of his head.

“Needs must,” Mat sighed, setting down the cloth and leaning back into Galad’s chest, closing his eyes. “I won’t stay here if I can manage to leave.”

For a few moments, Galad was silent, and then pulled away.

“I understand. I will do what I can to aid your departure, if it is within my ability,” Galad said, a promise in his words.

Turning around, Mat observed his erstwhile lover.

Galad stood, naked, unabashed, his hair a shambles and body exposed. He stood as if he wore armor and a banner fluttering behind him, proud and determined.

He couldn’t help it, Mat laughed. Smiling, he went to Galad and tilted his head up to kiss him, chastely.

“Thank you, Galad Damodred.”

Half an hour later, after spending a bit of time wantonly groping one another and making stupid jokes, Galad was gone, and Mat was alone.

Mat watched night steal over Tar Valon and eyed the place on the wall where Galad had made him come. They’d cleaned it up, but Mat couldn’t help blushing at the thought that he had _actually done it_. That Galad had _made_ him do it.

Of all the things he could have expected from a stay in Tar Valon, having amazing sex with a Prince of Andor was not something he would have ever imagined. For as wonderful as it had been, though, something... lingered, in the back of Mat’s mind. Those echoes of feeling that he could neither identify nor place in memory.

And if Mat were honest with himself, those holes in his memory scared him more than the unknown of what lay ahead.

* * *

Mat’s intention had been to get going while the going was good. With his pack secured to his back, and a quarterstaff Galad had brought him in hand, Mat opened the door to be on his way.

And saw _Nynaeve_ standing there, arms folded and looking unimpressed.

Blood and _bloody_ ashes.

For a moment, Mat contemplated eeling past her and running away, but he decided that talking to her now would be less painful than talking to her when she caught up with him. She was not an Aes Sedai, yet, so nothing was stopping her from using the One Power on him.

“Hello, Nynaeve,” Mat said, tightly, forcing a smile.

“Oh shut up,” she said, and pushed by him and into the room. “We need to talk.”

Sighing, Mat stepped back into the room and shut the door. He dropped his pack, and leaned against the door jamb, giving Nynaeve what he hoped was an expectant look. She might not be the Wisdom, here, but Mat couldn’t help feeling like he was a naughty child being called to task for some prank he had pulled.

“Don’t give me that look, Matrim Cauthon,” Nynaeve huffed, and visibly relaxed her body a bit. “I—wanted to look in on you before you left. I was,” Nynaeve gripped her braid, not quite tugging on it. “I was very worried about you when we were on our way here. You were dying. I’m sorry I couldn’t help sooner. Are you okay?”

The series of statements came out in nearly a rush, and Mat blinked at her.

“I’m fine, I suppose,” said Mat, straightening from his lean. “I _feel_ fine, at least. I…” Mat hesitated, unsure if he should confide in Nynaeve the extent of what the dagger had done to him, or being separated from it, at least.

Well, he didn’t need to tell her _everything._

“I don’t really remember a lot of what’s happened since we left Emond’s Field,” Mat admitted, softly, his earlier feeling of uneasiness returning. “It’s like someone chewed holes in my memory.”

Nynaeve frowned, lips pursed, but eventually she nodded. “Egwene mentioned that. It’s part of why I wanted to talk with you, before you left.”

“Oh?” Asked Mat, walking over the bed and sitting on it—gingerly, Light but he would be feeling his escapades with Galad for _days_ —leaving the chairs by the table for Nynaeve if she wanted them.

“It’s about Rand,” Nynaeve blurted.

Tensing, Mat hunched his shoulders, feeling a little defensive. “What about him?”

“Mat, don’t play coy with me,” Nynaeve almost snapped. “I’ve eyes in my head and a heart as well, so don’t you sit there and try to pretend like you haven’t been in love with Rand for years.”

Shocked into silence, Mat stared at Nynaeve with wide eyes.

“I have known the two of you since you were babes,” Nynaeve went on, her voice still irritated, but softer. “Light, Mat. The way you look at him, how your face would light up when he would come into town from the farm? Chasing away his _suitors?_ Blood and ashes, you could have just hung a sign around his neck that said _‘property of Matrim Cauthon’_ and it would have been about as subtle!”

“I—” Mat began, but stopped. He what? It wasn’t as if Nynaeve was _wrong_. Mat had loved Rand for years, had fallen into the role of shielding him from unwanted advances while never making his own. There hadn’t been room for anything between the two of them in Emond’s Field, though, not if Mat didn’t want to make a mess of things.

“Okay,” Nynaeve said, shifting on her feet. “Perhaps it wouldn’t have been so obvious to _other_ people. But I knew. I’ve known for years. And I also know that Rand, the woolhead, loves you just as much. So,” Nynaeve breathed in, as if preparing to shout. “I’d like to know what under the _Light_ you are doing with Galad Damodred.”

In the silence that followed the question—surprisingly _not_ shouted—Mat felt a lot of things. A bit outraged at Nynaeve’s audacity, making his choices her business like she had any right or say in the matter, and not a little bit of guilt.

What he had with Galad was something fun, something uncomplicated and—Light, something _nice_ to enjoy in the midst of chaos and horror.

But it had also, Mat could admit, been a way to ignore the fact that Rand was a channeler; that he was Lews Therin Telamon come again. Galad was a way to avoid thinking about the cold distance Mat had felt between him and Rand, in the bits and pieces he _could_ remember of the past months.

As those terrible echoes welled up in him, a surprisingly vivid memory of Rand flinching away from him manifested in Mat’s mind, floating out of context, and it made Mat’s stomach feel like a rock inside of him.

Rand was not something he could have, anymore.

“He’s the bloody Dragon Reborn, Nynaeve,” Mat whispered. “Does it really matter if I love him?”

A complicated look crossed Nynaeve’s face. “Of course it matters,” she said. “Love always matters.”

Looking down at the floor, Mat blinked to clear the moisture from his eyes. “We’re not in the Two Rivers, anymore. I’m not just a farm boy, and Rand isn’t just a shepherd. I—I _can’t_ be in love the Dragon Reborn, Nynaeve,” said Mat, looking up at her, and hating how his voice sounded like a plea. “I just can’t. So I’m taking my comfort and my pleasure with someone who wants and respects me, and won’t cause an earthquake because I’m leaving him behind to escape the bloody One Power.”

Nynaeve looked sad, and frustrated. Mat could empathize.

“But— _Mat_ , you can’t just—don’t you deserve a chance? Doesn’t _he?_ ” Nynaeve pressed.

“Blood and ashes, Nynaeve,” Mat swore, banging his fist down on the mattress. “He’s going to break the world! He’s going to go mad, Nynaeve, and then die!” Mat hissed, quietly, conscious of possible eavesdroppers. “What sort of chance is that, hmm? A chance to get killed? To watch my friend rot from the inside? A chance to get my _heart broken?_ ” Mat’s voice cracked on the last words, and he turned his head away from Nynaeve.

Light, but he’d been doing perfectly fine not thinking about these things since he’d woken up in the White Tower two days ago. There was a room in his head where he could keep his feelings about Rand locked away, and Nynaeve had just kicked open its door.

Mat felt her hand on his shoulder, but he didn’t bother pushing her away, or even looking at her.

“Oh, Mat,” Nynaeve sighed. “I think—I think that even five _minutes_ of the love I know you two could have would be worth it.”

Mat said nothing, only shaking his head. Nynaeve sighed and removed her hand.

“Galad seems like a good man, for what that’s worth, I suppose. You deserve that. But you deserve love, too. We all do. Mat—” She started, finally sitting next to him. “Did something happen, between you and Rand?”

_Guilt. Horror. Shame. Dread._

After a long, quiet moment sitting with the echoes in his head and the answers he didn’t have, Mat’s voice came out in a whisper.

“I don’t know.”

When a few moments passed, and Mat said no more, Nynaeve sighed. She looked like she wanted to ask about something else.

“Well. You best be going, then,” was all Nynaeve eventually said, though. She stood. “Stay out of trouble, you hear?”

Sniffling a little, Mat rose from the bed and gave Nynaeve his best smile, pasted on though it felt. “Don’t I always?”

Nynaeve scoffed, but before she could retort, Mat caught her in a hug. It said volumes about Nynaeve al’Meara that she hugged him back instantly and fiercely. Mat thought he might even miss her, a little, when he was gone.

As he sauntered out of the White Tower a few minutes later, bound for the taverns of Tar Valon, Mat thought about his destination.

After all the thoughts and blank spaces in his memory had been probed that afternoon, there was one question that Mat couldn’t shake, and it was the one Nynaeve had come very close to asking.

What had happened in Caemlyn?

* * *

Standing outside of the third tavern he’d visited that night, Mat felt—mildly disconcerted about just how much coin he had accumulated in maybe two hours of dicing and games of chance.

He had always been lucky. This—this _insanity_ felt like something more.

Light, what had _happened_ since he’d left Emond’s Field? Had the dagger done this? Blood and ashes, if luck like this was something good that came out of the whole horrible experience, Mat supposed he would take it.

As he hefted the pouch of coins he’d just added to his steadily growing collection, Mat felt a tingle go down his spine, the hair at the nape of his neck standing on end. He continued, nonchalantly putting the pouch in his coat pocket and stretching. Cracking his neck, Mat used the motion to look over each of his shoulders, but no one was around, at least that he could see.

“Safest city in the land my ass,” muttered Mat under his breath, making his way down the darkening street. After two turns and a trip through an alleyway, Mat found himself outside a tavern that looked and sounded like it was doing some good custom for the evening. _Perfect_.

Resisting the urge to throw one last look over his shoulder and give himself away if he _was_ being followed, Mat ducked inside and made his way to the end of the bar furthest from the door. Ordering an ale, he kept an eye on the entrance, looking out for any suspicious characters that might find their way into the bar after him, but none came.

After ten minutes and half the ale making its way into his belly, Mat relaxed, and sought out his next game.

After an _hour_ , Mat had to leave in haste to avoid possibly starting a brawl.

Light, _The Dark One’s Own Luck_ , that man had said.

What if it _was?_

Mat was so distracted as he hoofed it away from that tavern that he forgot to pay attention to his surroundings, and it nearly cost him his life.

Stumbling on a loose cobble, Mat swore and nearly fell on his face. A high-pitched whistle rent the air, and just beyond him, a loud crack of wood shattering startled him into hitting the ground anyway.

There in the street, a few paces from where Mat lay—having passed through where Mat thought his _head_ might have just been—were the remains of a crossbow bolt.

“Blood and _fucking_ ashes,” Mat swore, scrambling away and turning around, trying to see if he could spot his would-be assassin.

Mat hadn't been sure what he'd _hoped_ to see, but the sight of three unsavory looking characters headed his way was definitely _not_ it.

Gaining his feet, Mat hefted the quarterstaff Galad had appropriated for him and thought about making a fight of it, but the crossbow bolt on the ground decided it for him. He didn't feel an ounce of shame when he turned tail and rand. He could at least put some buildings' worth of obstacles between him and whatever perch the sniper had set up.

The sound of pursuit reached his ears, and Mat dashed toward an ornate looking bit of masonry on the corner of a structure ahead. He slipped the quarterstaff between his body and the pack on his back; not the most secure of positions, but it would do, for now. Barely pausing when he reached the hi objective—some stylishly carved vines and flowers—Mat used the protruding parts to get a good grip, hauling himself from the ground and onto a low roof.

 _Running across rooftops in Tar Valon_ , Mat thought to himself, somewhat hysterically. _Light, if Nynaeve could see me now._

The lack of crossbows being fired at him was encouraging, but Mat heard a shout from behind him that was very much _not_.

Blood and ashes, what did these people _want?_ Did they know about the horn? His coin?

Distraction again nearly cost Mat his life as he ran out of roofs and ledges, a wide gap yawning before him. The street below was bridged by a narrow beam, probably something for lamps or decoration, and it was Mat’s only avenue of escape.

Looking over his shoulder, expecting the trio of figures to be bearing down on him, he saw—bloody ashes, only _one_ person still in pursuit?

Light, had the others fallen off the roofs? Stayed on the ground to pursue him more safely? Whatever the reason, Mat wasn’t going to question it for the time beung. Maybe he _could_ get across the beam, even shift it out of place before the thug after him caught up.

"Not bloody likely," Mat muttered, but stepped out onto the beam, anyway.

To his dismay, Mat had barely made it halfway across when the thug reached the edge of the rooftop and called out to him.

"Why don't you make this easier for both of us and come back here so I can kill you quickly,” said the man in a sneering voice. “Better yet, just jump!”

Turning carefully, Mat eyed the man standing at the end of the beam. He was wide, perhaps as tall as Mat, but not taller. Mat could win, in a fight with him, he'd no doubt, but up _here?_ A strong breeze would spell his death.

Letting nothing of his thoughts into his voice, he hoped, Mat called back, still careful edging closer to the far side.

"Afraid I can't oblige you, friend," he said. "You're just going to have to get your hands dirty."

Without further taunting, the man pulled a sword from his belt and stepped out onto the beam, sending a jolt through Mat’s footing.

Well, fuck.

Mat pulled the quarterstaff from where he'd stuffed it, using it for balance as much as preparing to defend himself. The man reached Mat in two confident strides, and Mat felt his balance wobble with the beam as he ducked a cut that was aimed at his neck.

" _Shit,_ " he swore, stepping backward to avoid a thrust.

Feeling something like a daze come over him—were those _dice_ rolling in his head?—Mat flipped the quarterstaff in his hands and parried another slash. Nearly to the other side of the gap bridged by the beam, Mat hoped he would actually make it that far.

Barely able to keep up with what his own body was doing, Mat and his unknown assailant exchanged perhaps three more blows when Mat's balance wavered once more. For a moment, one of his feet hovered over empty space, and he overreached the strike he'd intended to catch the man in his middle.

Instead, it landed square in his face.

The crunch of bone was accompanied by a yell, a spray of blood and teeth, and finally, a fatal stumble.

Before Mat could do more than open his mouth in shock as he, too, fell forward, releasing his staff to catch the beam with both hands, the man had toppled sideways and off of the narrow bridge.

Staring down at the ground below him in disbelief, Mat didn't need to be a Wisdom or an Aes Sedai to tell that the man was dead, a pool of blood beginning to grow in the light of the moon.

Scuttling backward, heart pounding, Mat left his lost quarterstaff behind and fled across the rooftops of Tar Valon.

* * *

Nearly half an hour passed before Mat decided to chance the streets and the first tavern he came to, whatever it was. Blood and ashes, he wasn’t even going to bother dicing for more coin. He would get some food in his belly and then find the first ship out of this _bloody_ city.

Mat saw the sign for an inn called the Blue Cat, and thought it sounded as fine as any other. He walked in, made directly for the bar, and ordered brandy. As he downed the drink in one go, he listened to the sound of the musician singing, and nearly spat his drink out in shock.

It couldn’t be.

"Bloody ashes," he swore, coughing and turning to look. No, he was _not_ mistaken. That was Thom flaming Merrilin, in the flesh.

Getting another brandy, Mat sipped at it, this time, and watched the Gleeman play his harp and sing. At some point, Mat locked eyes with the old man, and though his song didn't falter, Mat could tell Thom had spotted him.

Amidst applause and shouts from the patrons in the inn, Thom laid aside his harp and made his way over to Mat. Though nothing obvious gave it away, Mat could tell by the somewhat careful way the old Gleeman picked his way through tables and chairs that the man was drunk.

"So, I see you didn't manage to keep yourself out of Aes Sedai business," said Thom, taking the seat next to Mat. "More's the pity, then."

"Making my way out of it right now," Mat responded, a little bemused by how bitter the old Gleeman sounded. "Bloody ashes, Thom. Are you—alright?" He ventured.

Over the next ten minutes, and a few small chickens consumed, Mat learned that Thom was not, in fact, alright. Burn him, but Mat felt more than a little sorry for the man.

Sorry enough that he ended up inviting him along to Caemlyn, it seemed. Well, it wasn’t as if the man weren’t useful when he wasn’t flaming drunk.

While Thom went off to his room, to the apparent delight of the Innkeeper, Mat decided now was as good a time as any to use the privy before he'd be subjected to the indignities of toileting aboard a ship.

Finishing his business in the outhouse around the back of the inn, Mat had barely stepped back inside when he heard a familiar voice.

"I can't be sure if you seem to find trouble, or if it seems to find you, Matrim Cauthon."

The smooth, almost amused lilt to that noble, Andoran baritone had a shiver running down Mat's spine, and a throb of remembered sensation starting up in the seat of his pants.

Whirling around, Mat looked wide eyed at none other than Galad Damodred as he stepped into the Inn after Mat, pushing closed the door Mat had left open in is surprise.

"Bloody ashes," Mat swore, gaining his bearings. "Galad, what under the Light are you _doing_ here? We’re you following me?" He hissed.

A frown creasing his beautiful features, Galad took a step toward Mat, revealing that he wore sturdy, nondescript traveling garb. Aside from his ridiculous face and the sword at his hip, nothing about him would have marked him as a prince to any passerby or patron at the inn, which was, at least, small mercy.

"Yes," answered Galad, simply. "After you had gone, I felt— _compelled_ to see you safely out of the city. It did not feel right to leave you running about when I know you are still unwell. You've stayed a step ahead of me, though. It was chance that I saw you coming out of this inn, at all.” Reaching behind him, Galad pulled out a familiar length of wood and held it out to Mat, eyebrows raised.

“You dropped this,” was all he said.

 _Chance_ , thought Mat, a shiver of a different sort passing through him as he accepted the quarterstaff, quickly stuffing it between his body and his pack once more. “Thanks,” he muttered.

Bloody luck, bloody _ta’veren_.

The idea that Galad cared enough to be concerned with his wellbeing made something warm curl in Mat's stomach, but the greater part of him was annoyed at both the presumption that he couldn't look after himself, and the possibility that Galad’s departure from the Tower had been noted. Light, if the Amyrlin knew Galad was helping him—and she surely knew Galad had gone from the Tower— what might she do?

Standing straighter, Mat fixed Galad with a glare. "I'm fine. I don't need a minder, Damodred."

"Of course not," answered Galad. The man stepped closer to him, and Mat’s heart beat faster at the proximity. Galad reached out a hand, smoothing it down Mat's arm to linger near his wrist. "That does not mean you have not been in danger, this night."

When Mat looked down at his sleeve, it was dotted with blood, probably spray that had come from the now dead man's face as he'd fallen. Mat hadn't noticed it, though _Thom_ surely had, drunk as he was.

Swallowing, Mat looked away from the blood, shaking Galad off.

"It's nothing," he grumbled, checking over his shoulder to see if Thom was back from his room, yet. "Bloody ashes, outside," sighed Mat, not wanting to be seen with a bloody prince of Andor, even if he was in disguise. Who knew which of these people might be spying for the White Tower.

Mat grabbed Galad by the sleeve, opened the door, and pulled him back into the alley from which they'd just entered.

"The two men I stopped from chasing you across the rooftops of Tar Valon were not nothing," Galad answered as Mat released him.

Mat looked up at him, surprised. "Wait, you were _there?_ " He asked.

Nodding, Galad rested a hand on his belt, near his sword.

"As I said, you stayed one step ahead of me. I had intended to approach you when you left the Sunset Inn, but those men followed you before I could. When they attacked you and you made for the roof, I disabled the two who were slower to climb after you. By the time I had finished, you had disappeared." Galad's brow creased again and he looked down, then back up at Mat. "I was—worried, that you had been hurt."

Feeling flustered, Mat folded his arms.

"Bloody fool fell," he muttered. "I didn't mean to kill him."

"Killing in defense of one's own life is not against the law in Tar Valon, as it is not in Andor," said Galad. "But, Matrim, why were they—"

"Ho, Mat, what’s keeping you? It's time we— _blood and ashes!"_

Thom's curse and the sound of Galad's sword leaving its sheath were the only warning Mat had before he was standing between two men, the both of them with naked steel in their hands.

Bloody _perfect_.

"Whoa, whoa, _whoa!_ " Mat nearly shouted, alarmed. "Galad, this is my _friend_ , put that thing away!"

"Your _friend?_ "

" _Galad?_ "

The questions came concurrently, and Mat tried to figure out what under the Light he was dealing with, here. For the moment, he decided that Galad and his sword were the greater problem.

 _"Don't stab him!"_ he hissed to Thom, before turning to Galad. "Put that thing away, you idiot! Thom is a friend!"

Galad did not put his sword away.

"A friend?" Galad repeated. "Thomdril Merrilin is an assassin and a _scoundrel_ ," he said, his eyes alight with an intensity that frightened Mat, just a little.

It didn't stop him from fixing Galad with an incredulous look, though.

"Galad, he's a _Gleeman_. Bloody good with his knives, sure, but an assassin? What are you on about?" He asked in disbelief. Mat turned back to Thom, who hadn't moved from his tense position, a knife in either hand. "Thom, how does he even know who you are?"

After a beat of silence, Thom met his eyes, and Mat had a second chance to be frightened by someone's expression, that evening. Thom looked—almost cold. _Dangerous_.

"We're acquainted," Thom said, tension in his voice, eyes resting back on Galad, the most immediate threat. There was no trace of drunkenness in the man, now. "From long ago."

"I may have been a _child_ , Merrilin," said Galad, his voice low and tight. "But your reputation in the Rose Court remains."

"I was banished from _Caemlyn_ ," Thom said, voice equally tight. "We are in Tar Valon, Galad Damodred. And I was never charged with any crime, let alone what you accuse me of."

Mat heard the leather grip of Galad's sword creak, and he was on the cusp of just letting them at each other and running for the nearest docks, when Galad just—subsided.

As if a taut string had been cut, Galad relaxed his body, and let his sword fall to his side.

"You are correct," he said, voice clipped, but no longer containing any passion. "My apologies for drawing steel on you. I acted in—haste."

Mat felt his jaw drop open a little. 

In consternation, he looked back to Thom. The old Gleeman had also lowered his arms, and the knives disappeared back to their hiding places. Unlike Galad's conspicuous non-expression, though, Thom looked tired. Observing the slight slump of his shoulders as he regarded Galad across the space that separated them, maybe even a little sad.

_Of all the things to happen to me, tonight. A bloody chance reunion with the gorgeous man I'm fucking and the bloody Gleeman who saved my life._

Rubbing a hand across his face, Mat took a breath.

"Alright, then, now that we've—"

Mat's body met the hard ground, and while he took a moment to gasp in a breath at the various aches and pains to which his abused body was only too happy to alert him—Light, perhaps having athletic sex wasn’t his best idea on the evening of a bloody escape—Mat realized, somewhat bemusedly, that Thom had just tackled him.

"Mat!" came Galad’s shout, and Mat could only stare in confusion as Thom rolled off of him, hands flicking out and away from his body. Moonlight glinted off of his blades as he threw them, and Mat realized that he was once again under attack.

Well, at least it wasn’t Galad and Thom trying to kill each _other_.

In Mat's head, as Thom shouted at Galad and another blade flashed through the air, Mat heard a familiar sound in his mind.

It was the sound of dice rolling.

* * *

"Bloody _ashes_ , I missed," snarled Thom.

"Missed what?" groaned Mat, looking from Thom's back to Galad's, both of whom were blocking his view of anything but the wall and back door to the Blue Cat.

"Assassin," said Galad, nodding to a section of the wall opposite where Mat had been standing, and Mat saw the telltale bits of wood and shaft where it had shattered against the Ogier built stone.

Ignoring the sensation in his head, Mat gained his feet.

"Light, _another_ one?" He complained, feeling a twinge in his back—and other places—from the somewhat strenuous activities he'd gotten up to, earlier.

Thom shot him a look, and, weirdly, shared one with Galad.

"Mat, I think it's time we were making ourselves scarce in Tar Valon," said the Gleeman, voice falsely nonchalant. "You said you could get us a boat?"

Dusting himself off, Mat looked between them.

"Oh, are we finally all in bloody fucking agreement, then?" He responded testily. Burn him, but he was in pain, he was confused, and he was bloody hungry again, the Light burn it. "Wonderful! Let's go."

Five minutes later, they were running for their lives.

"Darkfriends," Mat panted, as they rested just around a corner from their pursuers, getting their bearings. Knowing it to be truth in his heart, Mat said it again. "Light, they're bloody _darkfriends_."

"Typical," said Thom, not sounding winded at all as they cut quickly across a street to head for the docks.

Ahead, Mat could see a barge just beginning to push off. If they could make it, perfect. If not...

"That one," Mat said, pointing toward it, trying not to think about the sounds of their encroaching pursuit.

Taking Thom's lack of objection for agreement, Mat decided it was time to go. He turned to Galad, ready to tell the man to get gone so he didn't get skewered with a crossbow.

"I—"

Galad kissed him. Galad kissed Mat hard, and Mat couldn’t help but kiss him back.

"Go, Matrim," said Galad against his mouth. "I will hold them, here. All will be well."

The dice rattled in Mat's head, and he blinked up at Galad, catching those dark eyes just for a moment.

Then Thom yanked him in the direction of the departing barge without so much as a warning.

“Really, Mat? Is this the time?” hissed Thom, pulling him quickly away.

"You're a _bloody idiot!_ " Mat shouted back at Galad, stumbling after Thom.

Ignoring the spike of anxiety in his guts—Light, surely Galad could handle himself better than any street tough, crossbow or no, couldn’t he?—Mat outpaced Thom in a matter of moments as they closed the distance to the barge ahead.

Shouts, and the ring of steel on steel cut the air behind him.

_Burn you, Damodred._

With a leap, Mat cleared the gap of water, and landed firmly on the deck. Ignoring the shouts of whoever was on deck, probably the Captain, Mat whirled around to see Thom making a spry leap of his own.

 _Beyond_ Thom, though, Mat could see a single figure come to a halt, not far from water.

Maybe twenty paces from the end of the dock, Galad stood, bloodied sword in hand.

As Mat watched him, the moment seemed to stretch, the dice in his head rattling louder and faster.

From this far away, May couldn't be sure that their eyes actually met, but Galad tilted his head, as if thoughtful.

No. He couldn’t _possibly_ —

Galad sheathed his sword and _ran_.

Dreamlike, and yet faster than Mat thought he had ever seen _anybody_ move, he watched Galad reach the end of the dock, foot perfectly placed on the knife edge of falling in the water, and leap.

The dice thundered in Mat's head, and Galad _soared_.

The leap carried the Prince of bloody Andor across the wide space between the dock and the moving barge, but only _just_ to the edge of the boat's retreating deck.

Without a second thought, Mat lunged for Galad and caught his outstretched arm, pulling him bodily onto the craft.

Panting, wild-eyed, Mat just stared at Galad; a little awed and _very_ confused.

Next to him, Thom cleared his throat. “Mat, we need that bloody letter of passage or we’re going to be tossed overboard.”

Absently, Mat fished out the letter he'd been given, and handed it over to Thom without looking at him. Mat would let Thom figure out how to assuage the Captain's ire at not two, but _three_ unexpected passengers.

 _Three_.

Standing too close to the edge of the boat, Mat held Galad's arm in a vice, and stared at him in disbelief.

"You—you _jumped_ ," said Mat, dumbfounded, and for more than one reason.

The man rested his hand on Mat’s where it gripped his arm, and a small smile traced his beautiful lips—still a little swollen from their time in the Tower.

"Did you think that I would not follow, if I could?" asked Galad, as if he hadn’t just made a near impossible leap to come after him.

While Mat was pondering the answer to that question, he realized something.

The dice in his head had stopped.

_fin_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now, that certainly changes things, doesn’t it?
> 
> I have a lot of thoughts and headcanons about Galad, only some of which are present, here, as others didn’t really have need of a focus or inclusion for this plot.
> 
> But, like the Modern Westlands AU, there will eventually be more in this ‘verse.

**Author's Note:**

> Playing the part of Galadedrid Damodred in the Dagger 'Verse Canon Divergence AU, we have: Gaspard Ulliel


End file.
